FIRST  FRUITS 

F.  W.  Butler-Thwing 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FIRST-FRUITS 


BY 
FRANCIS  WENDELL  BUTLER- THWING 

ANDOVER  AND  HARVARD 


"That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust — " 

— In  Memoriam 


PRIVATELY   PRINTED 
1914 


DEDICATED 

WITHOUT    HIS    PERMISSION,    TO   THE 

HON.   ALFRED    AUBREY   TENNYSON 

Of  Eton  and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge 
IN  MEMORY  OF  HAPPIER  DAYS 


"Nessun  maggior  dolore, 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria." 

Francesca  to  Dante:  Inf.  V. 


FOREWORD 

For  a  college  man  to  print  a  volume  of  poetry 
requires  no  apology ;  it  needs  simply  a  gun  of  large 
calibre  for  its  defence.  And  no  ordinary  apology 
will  suffice  for  the  printing  of  this  volume,  especially 
since  it  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  not  in  the  least  "mod 
ern" — in  two  senses.  The  content  of  the  book  was 
ready  for  the  printer  two  years  ago,  but  circum 
stances  which  I  could  not  succeed  in  altering  have 
delayed  its  appearance  until  now.  Frankly,  I  know 
that  most  of  the  verse  and  much  of  the  prose  is  not 
worth  publication,  and  that  it  is  all  astoundingly 
uninteresting.  But  I  am,  even  at  this  late  date, 
following  an  ancient  resolution  to  print  some  of  the 
things  which  I  wrote  during  the  first  two  and  a  half 
years  at  Harvard ;  for  they  may  be  interesting  to  a 
few  people  into  whose  hands  they  may  fall,  from  the 
mere  fact  that  they  are  the  sincere,  even  if  badly 
expressed,  life-and-death  thoughts  of  a  very  young 
man. 

Above  all,  my  thanks  are  due  (I  believe  this  comes 
in  every  well-brought-up  preface)  to  those  friends  at 
Andover  and  Harvard  and  in  England  who  for  some 
years  have  made  the  world  such  a  pleasant  place  in 
which  to  work  and  play. 

F.  W.  B. 

Cambridge,  Massachusetts 
April,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

The  Death  of  Penelope 1 

The  Game 8 

Ibi  Requiescat 9 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam 10 

University  Hymn 11 

Sonnets : 

To  F.  F.— Ill  with  Scarlet  Fever  ....  12 

To  a  Hostess 13 

Striving 14 

To  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson     ...  15 

Sonnet  Fragments : 

To  A.  H.  H 16 

To  a  Lady 16 

Heroic  Couplets 17 

"Beyond  the  last  long  lisping  wave"       ...  18 

Weltschmerz 19 

Life's  Darkness 20 

John  Sterling 21 

Plato:  The  Morning  and  the  Evening  Star       .  22 

A  Translation  from  Horace 23 

Sehnsucht 25 

Charles  Kingsley 26 

Yvonne 28 

A  Memory 29 

The  Wanderer 30 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

The  Tramp  Ship 31 

On  an  Anonymous  Volume  of  Poems       ...  32 

"Through  hours  and  years  of  toil  and  pain"  .  33 

"Star-fire  and  Immortal  Tears"       ....  35 

The  Vision  of  Heart's  Delight 37 

Laughter  and  the  Rain 38 

Reconciliation 39 

A  Thought 40 

At  Andover 41 

L'Envoi :  The  Last  Thought  of  All  .      .      .      .42 

PROSE 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 45 

Of  Religion  and  Poetry 52 

The  Cambridge  Apostles 53 

Radicalism  at  Harvard 60 

The  Awakening  of  Wellington  Fay  ....  67 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam 74 


[viii] 


FIRST-FRUITS 


THE  DEATH  OF  PENELOPE 

[Legend  has  it  that  Odysseus,  on  his  return  to  Ithaca 
after  the  twenty  years'  absence,  found  the  call  of  the 
sea  too  strong  to  resist;  and  that  in  spite  of  Penelope's 
protestations,  he  sailed  away  again  in  search  of  new 
adventures.  This  is  the  theme  of  Tennyson's  Ulysses. 
I  have  imagined  the  death  of  the  heedful  and  long- 
suffering  wife  as  occurring  ten  years  after  Odysseus  and 
his  mariners  again  set  sail  "beyond  the  baths  of  all  the 
western  stars."] 

The  light  sinks  slowly  o'er  the  western  hills, 
The  golden  splendor  of  the  sunset  breaks 
And  rolls  its  glory  down  the  unseen  slopes 
Of  night. 

Against  the  fretful,  burning  west 
The  royal  isle  of  Ithaca  stands  stern, 
Drinking  the  glory  of  the  sun's  last  rays 
From  sky  and  sea  and  hills.     Unwillingly 
She  yields  herself  unto  the  night's  embrace. 
The  day-time  clamor  of  the  port  is  hushed; 
Gone  are  the  sailors  all  to  seek  their  rest, 
Leaving  their  swinging  boats  upon  the  wave. 
Fishermen's  nets,  wet  with  the  dark  sea-slime, 
Adorn  the  gray,  storm-beaten  island  rocks 
And  low  bespeak  the  bustle  of  the  day. 

[1] 


THE  DEATH  OF  PENELOPE 

The  gulls,  bright-winged  above  the  darkening  sea, 
Wheel  restlessly  and  tumble  towards  the  waves, 
Seeking  the  day,  where  day  would  be  no  more. 
The  sullen  waves  reach  slowly  up  the  beach, 
Tossing  their  manes  in  anger  towards  the  heights — 
And  there  a  house  which  rises  o'er  the  trees 
That  fain  would  screen  the  long,  refulgent  light 
Breaking  in  gladness  from  its  portaled  walls. 
The  calm  of  nature  rests  about  the  house 
Of  Nature,  welcoming  her  lover,  Night. 
The  wine  of  sunset  quenches  into  sleep 
Earth's  soul,  tired  with  the  fret  and  care  of  day, 
And  evening,  touched  with  day's  remembered  joys, 
Steals  softly  o'er  the  lisping  western  waves. 

Within  the  marble  halls  is  long-hushed  peace, 
Pale  evening  shadows  nicker  on  the  floors, 
Disturbed  by  no  rude  hand  or  careless  breath. 
The  long  hall  ends ;  and  there  a  vaulted  room 
Filled  with  the  rich  red  wine  poured  from  the  sun, 
Bright  with  the  fainting  glory  of  the  sea, 
Whispers  with  human  breath  and  touch  and  tread. 

High  on  the  curtained  bed  Penelope 
Lies  quiet,  gazing  sadly  towards  the  sea. 
About  her  shoulders  falls  the  smooth,  dark  hair, 
Shot  with  the  glancing  radiance  of  the  deep; 
And  round  her  bed  the  trusted  servants  stand 
To  hear  their  mistress  speak  her  last  fair  words. 
Reluctantly  she  turns  her  from  the  sea, 

[2] 


THE  DEATH  OF  PENELOPE 

Extends  an  eager  hand  and  looks  about 

With  that  last  strong,  remembering,  hopeful  look 

Which  calls  the  past  into  the  present  hour 

And  seals  the  present  to  eternity. 

Motioning  the  maidens  close  about,  she  speaks: 

"My  friends,  ye  who  have  served  me  long  and  well, 

Hark  to  your  mistress  now,  Penelope, 

Whom  men  once  called  the  Heedful,  worshiping 

The  rhythm  of  her  household  ways,  the  love 

She  bore  her  husband  through  long  years  of  toil. 

Ye  have  but  known  me  since  Odysseus  left 

His  home  a  second  time  to  sail  the  sea 

In  quest  of  unknown  land  and  unknown  spoil. 

Twenty  long  years  before  ye  came  to  me 

I  waited  his  return  from  war-girt  Troy, 

Resisting  the  appeals  of  those  who  fain 

Would  have  him  dead  and  have  me  yield  myself. 

Nobly  and  as  true  wife  I  bore  me  till 

My  blessed  lord  returned  and  killed  the  men 

Who  sought  my  hand. 

"My  maids,  naught  can  I  tell 
To  show  the  joy  of  that  long  wished- for  day 
When  he  once  more  received  me  in  his  arms 
And  pressed  my  cheek  unto  his  furrowed  lips. 
Long  had  I  borne  for  this,  long  suffered  pain, 
The  anguish  of  the  soul  whose  strength  is  gone, 
But  unto  which  some  God  gives  sustenance. 
Again  had  I  not  only  strength,  but  joy, 

[3] 


THE  DEATH  OF  PENELOPE 

And  all  that  gods  can  give  in  life  renewed 

When  once  again  we  sat  within  the  halls. 

We  were  not  old;  though  years  of  wandering 

Had  scarred  his  face  and  aged  his  crafty  mind 

His  heart  was  young  and  strong,  and  I  was  young 

For  very  loving.     Long  might  we  have  lived 

In  wedded  happiness  e'en  as  the  kings 

Before  the  days  of  Troy  and  felt  as  one 

The  kiss  of  happy  time  upon  our  brows. 

But  no!     Again  he  took  me  in  his  arms, 

Again  the  long,  sad  kiss,  the  bitter  sob 

Of  pain  not  understood.     'The  sea,  the  stars,' 

He  said,  'are  calling;  to  their  call  I  yield.' 

"Ye  know  the  rest.     Telemachus  remained 

Only  a  year  to  glorify  the  house, 

To  comfort  me  his  Mother  with  his  laugh, 

His  thoughtful,  manlike  eyes  and  quiet  ways. 

He,  too,  set  sail,  following"  down  the  path 

Which  leads  amid  the  piercing  western  stars. 

Then  I  alone  was  left  to  guard  the  isle, 

To  rule  the  savage,  half-formed  men  who  till 

The  rocky  soil  and  keep  the  restless  shore. 

Long  did  I  wait  my  son's  return,  and  long 

Did  I  gaze  day  on  day  across  the  sea 

And  watch  the  west  for  his  home-coming  sail. 

"But  all  my  hopes  have  vanished  unfulfilled; 
And  now,  my  friends,  I  go.     Perhaps  the  forms 
Of  those  I  love  may  meet  me  wandering 

[4] 


THE  DEATH  OF  PENELOPE 

Within  the  dusky  halls  of  death.     Perhaps 
There,  too,  shall  I  await  in  vain  their  greeting 
And  never  hear  their  voices  echo  more. 
All  is  unknown;  my  humble  tasks  are  done, 
And  now  I  go  to  seek  life's  last  reward, 
The  grand  work  unfulfilled,  the  vision  lost. 

"And  yet,  it  may  be  that  the  highest  ends 
Are  won  by  humblest  means.     I  who  have  done 
The  simple  duty  of  the  home,  distant 
The  clash  of  war,  the  honor  and  the  spoil, 
May  still  reap  benefits  unheard,  unseen. 
E'en  now  a  ready  voice  within  the  heart 
Says  that  the  toil  has  not  been  all  in  vain. 
Love  given,  love  received,  have  each  left  marks 
Of  hope  and  joy  upon  the  yearning  soul. 
'Tis  not  the  grandeur  of  the  work  which  wins 
A  glorious  guerdon  at  the  hands  of  gods ; 
The  soul  that  moves  the  work's  accomplishment 
In  lowly  ways  to  noble  ends  stands  sure 
Of  meet  reward  when  all  the  days  are  done. 
After  the  deadening  toil  of  dreary  hours, 
Spent  in  the  house  alone  with  dreary  tasks, 
It  may  be  that  I  yet  shall  sit  the  peer 
Of  brave  Odysseus  and  Achilles,  yea, 
Of  all  the  god-born  men  who  fought  at  Troy. 
All  is  unknown,  the  great  deep  lies  before. 

"Strong  love  of  life  thrills  through  me  as  I  see 
Ye  standing  here,  my  maids,  full  of  the  hope 

[5] 


THE  DEATH  OF  PENELOPE 

That  comes  from  glad  lives  purely,  nobly  lived. 
Fain  would  I  stay  to  clasp  mine  own  again, 
To  see  my  blessed  lord  e'en  as  he  lived, 
To  look  upon  his  face,  to  feel  his  kiss, 
And  have  my  son  once  more  beside  my  knee 
Drawing  the  ancient  love  within  my  breast — 
And  yet,  I  dare  not  question  Zeus's  will. 
What  comes  I  ask  not,  only  wait  the  end. 

"And  oh !  might  you,  my  maidens,  take  the  work 
I  leave  and  bear  it  onward  for  my  sake. 
Keep  well  the  house  until  my  lord's  return 
That  he  may  find  it  garnished  if  he  come — 
The  fire  laid  where  he  used  to  warm  his  hands 
After  long  battles  fought  against  the  breeze. 
And  do  ye  also  keep  the  torch  alight 
In  this  west  window  for  Telemachus, 
That  as  he  rides  toward  port  a  sign  of  love 
May  greet  him,  e'en  though  I  be  far  away. 
Again  I  charge  ye  all,  keep  fresh  the  flowers 
Above  the  place  where  lies  the  dust  of  her 
Who  did  not  seek  the  splendor  of  the  west 
But  waited  for  the  coming  of  her  lord. 

"What  more?    I  die,  but  linger  on  the  road 
To  Death.     The  gods,  who  knew  my  love  of  life, 
My  joy  in  humble  duty,  checked  and  bound 
By  quiet  household  cares,  by  faith  and  love 
Will  judge  aright.     If  this  be  all  of  life, 
My  friends,  farewell." 

[6] 


THE  DEATH  OF  PENELOPE 

Only  the  sob  of  white-robed  maidens  moves 
And  thrills  upon  the  quiet  evening  air. 
The  sea,  calmed  by  the  sun's  last  lingering  ray 
Lies  waiting,  silvery-barred,  beneath  the  moon. 
The  willows  round  the  portals  of  the  house 
Tremble  as  if  moved  by  some  ancient  grief. 
Peace  reigns,  peace,  death,  the  quiet  of  the  stars, 
Eternity  lies  resting  on  the  deep. 

Big  Pine  Mine, 
Prescott,  Arizona. 
August,  1911. 


[7] 


THE  GAME 

[From  the  Harvard  Illustrated  Magazine] 

The  call  of  the  goal  far  down  the  field, 
The  throb  of  the  stands  to  left  and  right, 

An  answering  throb  from  a  spirit  sealed 

In  a  heart-wrung  prayer  for  strength  for  the  fight. 

A  moment  of  silence;  the  sultry  wait 

Through  a  life-time  to  catch  the  glint  of  the  ball, 
Then  the  impulse,  the  sob,  and  the  rush  of  fate 

And  the  leaping  of  life  to  the  captain's  call ! 

There  twenty-two  men  in  the  battle's  embrace, 

Hurtling  eager   and   tense   at   the   thought   of  a 

name; 
Then  the  shock,  and  the  halt,  and  the  changing  of 

place 
And  the  prayer  through  it  all  to  play  the  game! 

The  strong  man's  soul  by  the  pain  of  years 
Gathered  and  crushed  in  the  bitter  night, 

The  weary  wait  and  the  rush  of  tears, 

Then  God  grant  us  strength  to  win  the  fight ! 

Alone  with  our  task  on  a  distant  shore, 
Facing  the  wrath  of  worlds  that  blame, 

With  sorrow  behind  and  darkness  before, 
Ah!  Christ  give  us  pluck  to  play  the  game. 

November,  1911. 

[8] 


IBI  REQUIESCAT 

[From  the  Harvard  Advocate] 

The  heat,  the  strife,  the  weariness  of  day, 
A  long-drawn  hush,  the  evening  song,  the  bell, 
A  soul  upon  its  unseen,  starlit  way 
Where  cloud-shapes  in  the  vast  stand  sentinel. 
A  moment's  pain,  the  quick  relief  of  tears, 
A  moment's  vision  of  the  grave — the  sod — 
And  then  thou  liest,  comrade  of  the  years, 
Faint,  trembling  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 

Arizona 
1911. 


[9] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

[Affectionately  inscribed  to  the  memory  of  Alfred 
Lord  Tennyson} 

Poet-angel,  find  the  loved  one 

Where  he  lives  beyond  the  blue, 
Bring  him,  let  him  sit  beside  me, 
Let  him  live  as  once  he  lived, 

Dark-flushed    cheeks,    warm   lips,    eyes    gleaming 
tender-true. 

Could  I  know  him  as  you  knew  him 

Ere  his  swift,  glad  life  had  fled? 
See  him,  touch  him,  hear  his  laughter 
As  he  sat  on  winter  evenings, 

Hands   in   pockets,   with   the   firelight   round   his 
head  ? 

Might  he  come,  dear  angel-poet, 

Sit  with  me  and  whisper  low. 
Tell  how  once  we  knew  each  other 
In  the  distance  dim-enchanted, 

Laughed  and  cried  together  once,  long  ago? 

Might  we  sometime  meet  each  other 

As  worlds  onward,  upward  roll? 
Clasp  !  forget  our  recent  parting, 
Once  renew  the  old,  old  rapture 

Heart  in  heart  quick  pulsing,  starlit  soul  in  soul ! 

February,  1911. 

[10] 


UNIVERSITY  HYMN 

Our  God  leads  onward,  pillared  in  the  flame, 
E'en  as  He  led  through  desert  wastes  of  old ; 

The  serried  ranks  still  shout  on  high  his  name, 
The  ancient  tale  of  battle  still  is  told. 

Forward  the  long  line  swings,  the  comrades  fall, 
The  night  is  choked  with  toil  and  dim  with  tears, 

But  still  the  love  of  God  flames  over  all 

And  beckons  to  the  faithful  through  the  years. 

So  forward,  brethren,  up  the  toil-worn  slope, 

Where  trod  your  peers,  glad  saints  with  heroes' 
might ; 

Today  renew  their  visioned  strength,  their  hope, 
Like  them  advance  through  pain  to  greet  the  light. 

The  love  of  God  leads  forth  our  eager  ranks, 
Our  wills  are  fixed  unwavering  on  the  goal; 

For  toil-won  Truth  now  hear  the  children's  thanks 
In  Truth  united,  heart  and  mind  and  soul. 

September,  1911. 


[11] 


SONNETS 
To  F.  F. — ILL  WITH  SCARLET  FEVER 

They  told  me,  Francis,  you  were  sick  in  bed! 
My  heart  was  ill  content  to  bear  this  news 
Which  moved  my  pity  e'en  as  Kitten's  mews 

Disturb  the  heart  of  Cat  with  anxious  dread. 

My  tears  flowed  free :  "Alas,  alas !"  I  said, 
"What  evil-minded  god  in  rage  doth  use 
Such  means  to  show  his  anger  and  t'  abuse 

The  eager,  hungry  child  he  long  has  fed?" 

Long,  long,  I  sorrowed  thus,  and  then  arose 
With  brighter  face  at  thought  of  all  the  joy 
When  first  of  chicken  thou  dost  eat,  and  rows 
Of  biscuits  brown.     The  Duchess  of  Savoy 
Ne'er  had  a  better  feast  of  quails  and  does 
Than  thou  upon  that  day,  O  happy  boy ! 

December,  1909. 


[12] 


To  A  HOSTESS 

Kind  hostess,  Mother  of  my  best  loved  friend, 

Clear-visioned  prophet  of  a  better  day, 
To  thee  in  feeble,  halting  words  I  send 

What  meed  of  deep  heart-seated  love  I  may. 
My  childish  lips  to  thee  would  fain  express 

The  mystic  thoughts  that  well  within  the  soul, 
The  burden,  bitter-sweet,  of  wistfulness, 

The  pain  of  separation  from  life's  whole. 
God  knows  what  fruit  my  earthly  life  will  bear, 

Whether  the  harvest  will  be  great  or  small; 
The  future  lies  like  an  unbreathed  prayer 

Between  my  spirit  and  the  All-in-all. 
But  now,  dear  loved  soul,  I  can  but  lay 
One  gift  upon  the  altar,  then  away. 

September,  1910. 


[13] 


STRIVING 
[To  J.  G.  G.— Harvard  1912] 

Sometimes,  when  with  the  thoughtful  spirit  broods 

A  dim-felt  sense  of  great  powers  unfulfilled 
In  heat  of  life;  and  in  the  man-lost  moods 

Of  self  the  heart  is  hushed  and  brain  is  stilled, 
Then    comes    the    soul's    long-dreaded,    long-sought 
hour. 

Burning,  alone,  big  with  desire  it  stands, 
In  needed  act  scorning  to  use  its  power, 

Slow-reaching    through    the    dark    with    wistful 

hands. 
Columbus  once  left  country,  home,  and  sire 

On  a  mad  quest  to  sail  across  the  sea: 
Distant  results  of  that  he  did  acquire 

Have  changed  immortal  Europe's  destiny. 
The  soul,  once  back  from  its  dark  western  skies 
Leads  the  whole  man  on  noblest  enterprise. 

March,  1911. 


[14] 


To  THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 
10  MAY,  1911 

{From  the  Harvard  Advocate] 

First  of  thy  country's  sons  in  thought  and  deed 
Who  mingled,  stern  and  faithful,  with  thy  peers 
And  fought  for  nobler  life  in  changing  years 

As  thou  didst  serve  thy  nation  in  her  need — 

Today,  merged  in  thy  largeness,  thoughtful,  freed 
From  narrow  aims  and  petty,  low-born  fears 
We  come  in  wondering  grief  and  solemn  tears 

To  pay  thy  memory  a  brave  man's  meed. 

Soldier  and  priest,  friend  of  the  great  and  good, 
Whose  long  life-battle,  nobly  fought,  is  done, 
Ah !  would  that  we  might  stand  as  thou  has  stood 
And,  scarred  in  strife  of  years,  grow  like  to  thee, 
Worthy  the  gifts  thy  toil  and  thought  have  won, 
Thy  peers  in  strength  and  Christ-like  courtesy! 


[15] 


SONNET  FRAGMENTS 

To  A.  H.  H. 

And  yet,  dear  soul,  we  know  that  we  can  be, 

Since  thou  wast  of  this  earth,  somewhat  like  thee. 


To  A  LADY 

'Tis  sometimes  said  that  all  earth's  sweetest  things, 

The  rainbow  and  the  rose,  are  earliest  dead, 
That  gathering  quick  their  souls  on  soaring  wings 

They  leave  our  life  and  heavenward  are  led. 
'Tis  for  our  most  loved  things  that  most  we  fear, 

Despising  our  own  worth  to  keep  the  prize 
And  wondering,  might  the  Father  one  sad  year 

Himself  take  the  loved  thing  to  Paradise. 
And  yet  for  thee  we  cannot  ever  fear : 
Heaven  needs  thee  not;  thou  bringest  Heaven  here. 


[16] 


HEROIC  COUPLETS 

O  Muse,  come  from  your  still  retreat  and  play 
What  song  you  will  to  grace  your  lyre  today. 
Let  country  pastures,  birds,  or  dragon's  lairs, 
Let  warriors,  goblins,  elves,  or  peasant's  wares, 
Or  praise  of  love,  or  wine  which  Hera  sips 
Concern  your  mind,  O  Muse,  and  move  your  lips. 
Where  wilt  thou  then?    First  to  the  Sabine  Farm, 
Where  Horace  lived  and  wrote  'mid  war's  alarm. 
The  stream  is  there,  the  rocks,  the  trees  the  same 
'Neath  which  he  loved  to  sit  and  think  of  fame. 
The  grass  is  soft  and  green;  the  wood  is  still. 
Why  should  I  go  and  leave  the  Sabine  Hill? 
Stay,  stay,  dear  Muse,  and  let  me  drink  awhile 
The  cold  clear  air  of  Sappho's  Lesbian  isle — 
The  air  which  Horace  brought  to  Rome  in  song 
To  teach  some  love  of  truth,  some  hate  of  wrong. 

1910. 


[17] 


Beyond  the  last  long  lisping  wave 
Are  far-seen  regions  I  would  know 

Where  once  from  darkness  Something  gave 
Soul-life  below. 

Beyond  the  sun  we  deem  so  fair, 
Above  the  whispering  planets  high, 

Further  than  human  thought  or  care 
Those  regions  lie. 

Where  lives  the  lofty  silent  soul 

Whose  memory  moves  in  earthly  dreams 

And  mingles  life's  dark-turbid  flow 
With  crystal  streams. 

Lit  waters  on  a  summer  night, 

Low  streaming  clouds  above  the  sea — 

These,  these  reveal  to  mortal  sight 
Eternity. 

September,  1910. 


[18] 


WELTSCHMERZ 

Why  put  in  words  the  pain  we  feel 
When  world-grief  with  the  spirit  lies 

And  dark-winged  doubts  will  soar  and  wheel 
And  tumble  under  towering  skies? 

The  night  is  long,  the  eye  is  dark, 
The  soul  is  smothered  in  its  gloom; 

Resistless  forces  seem  to  mark 
Our  footsteps  to  eternal  doom. 

We  pause;  we  ask,  How  can  we  know? 

Whence  comes  the  spirit's  leaping  flame? 
Is  death  the  end?     Is  life  a  show 

In  which  we  act  from  petty  shame? 

The  yearning  grief  holds  mind  and  limb, 
Our  prayers  and  tears  break  not  its  might, 

The  homesickness  we  feel  for  Him 
Who  gave  ourselves  to  see  the  right. 

Though  deep  in  pain  of  mind  and  soul, 
We  know  the  truth,  whate'er  we  say ; 

We  know  that  God-lit  aeons  roll, 
That  after  night  will  come  the  day. 

1910. 

[19] 


LIFE'S  DARKNESS 

Life's  darkness  is  of  thick  stained  glass 
Through  which  the  sunbeams  try  to  pass ; 
The  house  within  is  dark  and  chill — 
Outside,  the  sun  is  shining  still. 

November,  1910. 


[20] 


JOHN  STERLING 

When  life  was  young  and  hopes  were  high 
And  winged  winds  from  heaven  blew, 
Swift  came  a  voice;  its  call  he  knew — 
"Thou  soon  must  die." 

He  did  not  shrink  or  make  reply 
But  stood  and  smiled  as  death  drew  near. 
That  silent  answer  yet  rings  clear — 
"Thou  can'st  not  die." 

January,  1911. 


[21] 


PLATO  :  THE  MORNING  AND  THE  EVENING 
STAR 

'AcrT7)p  irpiv  [J.ev  lAa/ATres  fvl  £a>(Hcriv  twos 


Star  of  the  dawn,  who  once  among  the  living  raised 

your  head, 
Now,  dying,  as  the  evening  star,  you  shine  among 

the  dead. 

1910. 


[22] 


HORACE:  ODES,  BOOK  III,  9 

"Donee  grains  eram  tibi" 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  well-appointed  sitting- 
room.  Mamma  is  seen  sewing  behind  the  portieres 
at  the  back.  Clarice  is  sitting  in  the  middle  of  a 
large  sofa,  with  her  arms  folded.  Directly  opposite 
her,  at  a  distance  of  two  feet  six  inches,  on  a  straight- 
backed  chair,  is  Claude  (the  hero).  A  long  pause; 
finally: 

HE: 

As  long  as  I  was  loved  by  you 

And  no  one  with  more  winsome  ways 

Embraced  you  and  sent  billets-doux 
A  happy  king  I  spent  my  days. 

SHE  (quickly)  : 

As  long  as  you  loved  me  alone 

And  I  was  raised  above  the  rest, 
A  maiden  fair,  on  fame's  high  cone, 
I  lived  a  life  by  far  the  best. 

HE  (waiting  to  see  how  she  will  take  it)  : 
Now  Thracian  Chloe  is  my  queen, 

Who  sweetly  sings  and  plays  the  lyre ; 

(Oh,  spare  her,  Fates,  she's  just  sixteen) 

For  her  I  would  brave  sword  and  fire. 

[23] 


HORACE:  ODES,  BOOK  III,  9 

SHE  (nodding  appreciatively)  : 

I,  too,  have  tolled  my  old  love's  knell, 

A  Thurian  boy,  Ornytus'  son, 
(Oh,  spare  him,  Fates,  I  love  him  well) 

Is  now  the  last,  the  only  one. 

HE  (ill  concealing  his  real  interest)  : 
What  if  the  old,  old  love  return 

And  bring  us  now  beneath  her  sway? 
What  if  the  new  no  longer  burn? 
My  doors  are  wide  to  you  alway. 

SHE    (leaning    slightly    forward    and    smiling 

divinely) : 
You  are  as  changing  as  the  sea — 

My  other  love  is  like  the  sky 
And  I  like  him,  but  you  love  me — 
With  you  I'll  live  and  gladly  die. 

[Falls  into  his   arms.     Mamma  stops   sewing. 
Slow  curtain.] 

March,  1910. 


[24] 


SEHNSUCHT 

[From  the  Harvard  Advocate] 

A  voice  across  the  darkening  sea, 
A  whisper  on  the  waiting  air, 
Lovers  on  the  bleak  high  lea 
Gazing  seaward  silently; 
Between  them  and  the  sunset  there 
The  slow  gulls  tumbling  restlessly. 

March,  1911. 


[25] 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

[From  a  letter  dated  June  12,  1841 :  "I  have  been 
for  the  last  hour  on  the  seashore  thinking  deeply  and 
strongly  and  forming  determinations  which  are  to 
affect  my  destiny  through  time  and  through  eter 
nity.  Before  the  sleeping  earth  and  the  sleepless  sea 
and  stars  I  have  devoted  myself  to  God;  a  vow 
never  (if  he  gives  me  the  strength  I  pray  for)  to  be 
recalled."] 

The  evening's  calm  on  land  and  sea — 
Only  the  tree-tops  whispering  low 

And  waves  in  ancient  rivalry 

Breaking  together  soft  and  slow. 

A  dreamer  on  the  moonlit  sands 
Beneath  the  heavens'  dotted  scroll 

Sits  bowed  o'er  trembling,  clasped  hands 
In  midnight  commune  with  his  soul. 

At  first  no  sound  to  break  the  hush 
Of  the  tense  planets  on  their  way, 

Only  the  heart's  quick  beat — the  rush 
Of  white-crowned  ringlets  from  the  bay. 

God  walks  the  silent  sea  tonight, 

His  presence  thrills  on  starry  ways ; 

The  man  renews  his  yearning  might, 
Gathers  the  soul  within  and  prays. 

[26] 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

"O  God,  tonight  I  make  my  vow 

Before  the  sleepless  stars  and  sea 
Always  to  do  Thy  work — both  now 

And  through  Thy  dim  eternity. 
In  doubt  and  faith  our  hearts  aspire 

And  then  earth's  children  hasten  on; 
But  may  this  night's  soul-wrought  desire 

Be  mine  when  faith  and  earth  are  gone. 
All  that  I  am,  all  I  may  be 

I  consecrate  to  Thine  and  Thee." 

The  evening's  calm  on  sea  and  land 
Where  rustling  breezes  stir  and  blow, 

The  waves  upon  the  yellow  sand 

Still  crouch  together,  breaking  slow. 

April,  1911. 


[27] 


YVONNE 

She  gathers  all  the  noontide  glory  streaming  from 

the  sun 
And  holds  it  nourished  in  her  breast  until  the  day 

is  run; 
Then  glorious  o'er  the  pathway  a  living  radiance 

throws 
Which  deepens  in  the  violet,   and  gladdens   in  the 

rose. 

1911. 


[28] 


A  MEMORY 

[Of  Henry  Fitzmaurice  Hallam,  who  died  at  Siena, 
October  25,  I860] 

[From  the  Harvard  Monthly] 

We    walked    the    silent    autumn    valley    while    the 

streaked  sun  sank  low 
And  slowly  gathered  red,  red  grapes  where  Italia's 

vine-trees  grow; 
Waiting  by  the  streamlet's  bridge  we  spoke  of  him 

whose  life  was  truth, 
Of  the  pity  of  his  death-time  and  the  promise  of  his 

youth. 

June,  1911. 


[29] 


THE  WANDERER 

Down  the  sunset  valley 

In  the  gray-gold  of  the  day 

The  wanderer  from  the  Southland 
Swings  on  his  silent  way. 

With  back  to  the  purple  Highlands 
Bathed  in  the  sun's  last  beams 

He  faces  the  shadowed  country 
Sought  darkly  in  his  dreams. 

The  world  cannot  know  what  sorrow 
Leads  thee  this  unknown  path, 

What  love  of  larger  living 

Fighting  through  tears  and  wrath. 

But,  Traveler,  fare  onward, 
With  hope  too  great  for  tears, 

Not  doubting  that  thy  heart's  peace 
Shall  find  thee  in  the  years, 

When  the  joy  of  Love's  dominion 
And  the  pain  of  tears  not  shed 

Shall  gently  draw  thee  homeward, 
A  Soul  raised  from  the  dead. 

London 

July,  1911. 


[30] 


THE  TRAMP-SHIP 

Sailing  over  summer  seas 

Seeking  ports  of  rest, 
Dancing  with  the  dancing  breeze, 

Host  and  guest. 

Calmed  beside  the  setting  sun, 

Lifeless  on  the  deep, 
Waiting  till  the  halt  be  done 

And  the  sleep. 

Driving  'gainst  the  sullen  storm, 

Striking  hard  the  foe, 
Gallant  heart  and  gallant  form 

Breast  the  snow. 

Homeward,  homeward  in  the  years, 

All  thy  pennons  fly; 
Bravely  onward,  smiles  and  tears, 

Home  to  die. 

July,  1911. 


[31] 


ON  AN  ANONYMOUS   VOLUME   OF   POEMS, 
BY  "A  WANDERER" 

Earth's  Wanderer !    What  man  of  might, 
Gulfed  by  the  storm  in  unknown  seas, 

Drowning  has  flung  this  parchment  far 
A  dying  message  to  the  breeze ! 

With  hope,  perhaps,  that  winds  may  waft 
His  heart's  scroll  to  a  distant  land, 

That  there  some  wanderer  on  the  shore 
May  stoop,  may  read,  and  understand. 

May  look  in  pity  toward  the  deep 

And  wonder  whence  that  whispered  breath 

And  whose  the  hand  that  dimly  wrote 
Those  thoughts  of  God,  of  love,  of  death. 

July,  1911. 


[32] 


Through  hours  and  years  of  toil  and  pain 
Thy  work,  O  Soul,  stands  to  be  done; 

The  lofty  summits  thou  wouldst  gain 
Are  slowly,  like  the  mountains,  won. 

Upon  the  hills  in  pain  and  toil 

Thou  risest  toward  a  distant  height, 

But  ever  as  thou  spurn'st  the  soil 

Fresh  visions  greet  thy  labored  sight. 

The  work  is  not  in  vain ;  for  lo ! 

Thy  labors  are  their  own  reward 
And  all  thy  struggles  rise  and  go 

To  bring  thee  nearer  to  thy  Lord. 

***** 

But  art  thou  in  the  valley,  thou 

Whose  heart  was  ever  on  the  heights, 

Is  there  no  labor  for  thee  now 

To  calm  thy  sleep  in  starry  nights? 

Only  the  long  day's  dreary  round 
The  hidden  woe,  the  unknown  care 

And  thoughts  in  sunless  ether  bound, 
Tho'  born  to  breathe  a  purer  air. 

The  hills  are  veiled ;  thou  canst  not  see 
The  work  that  waits  thee  to  be  done: 

Thy  vision  but  the  sovereignty 
Of  Nature  o'er  her  bleeding  son. 

[33] 


Ah !  some  day  from  the  peaks  shall  come 
To  greet  thee  with  a  rush  of  tears 

Meet  guerdon  for  thy  travail's  sum, 
Purging  the  sorrow  of  the  years, 

And  joy  of  all  the  wished- for  days 
Shall  steal  into  thy  glad  heart  then 

And  gathered  there  shall  gently  raise 
Thy  spirit  to  its  God  again. 

Prescott,  Arizona. 
August,  1911. 


[34] 


"STAR-FIRE  AND  IMMORTAL  TEARS" 

Brothers  of  earth,  born  of  the  vast 

Where  Azrael's  bastions  loom, 
Nursed  by  some  sorrow  in  the  past 

'Mid  silence  of  the  tomb — 
Ye  who  have  fought  thro'  pain  and  death 

To  gain  that  pure  serene, 
Now  share  the  human  altar's  breath, 

Oh,  cleanse  with  star-fire  keen! 

Calm,  without  fear,  within  the  dark, 

After  the  years  of  toil, 
Thy  radiance  is  the  heavenly  mark 

That  leads  us  from  the  soil; 
Thy  glory  granted  visioned  men 

Deep  in  the  wells  of  time 
The  poise,  the  strength,  the  sweeping  ken 

Of  whispering  heights  sublime. 

So  Abram  saw  ye  long  ago 

Upon  far  Hebron's  plain 
And  dreamed  of  that  which  he  should  sow, 

His  children  as  the  grain. 
Frail  Keats,  when  in  the  vessel  laid 

And  borne  from  England's  shore 
Lifted  his  soul  to  ye  and  prayed, 

'Mid  stars  forevermore. 

[35] 


'STAR-FIRE  AND  IMMORTAL  TEARS" 

Bright  orbs !  the  mystery  of  the  deep 

Within  your  portals  hides 
And  in  our  petty  earthly  sleep 

Your  calmness  oft  abides; 
Oh !  grant  an  earthly  heart  tonight, 

'Mid  sorrow  of  the  years, 
A  glimpse  of  tenderness  and  might, 

The  strength  to  fight  through  tears. 

15  September,  1911. 


[36] 


THE  VISION  OF  HEART'S  DELIGHT 

Oh !  the  earth,  thought  I,  the  travail  of  earth. 

Ah!  the  gamut  of  all  her  pain! 
Can  ever  the  spring  in  its  gladness  bring 

Aught  hope  of  summer  again? 

The  answer  was  "No,"  by  night  and  by  day 
As  I  breathed  up  my  prayer  on  high 

Or  deep  in  the  toil  of  the  bitter  soil 
Gazed  dumb  at  the  pitiless  sky. 

So  sadly  I  worked  'mid  the  dew  and  the  sun 
And  gleaned  me  no  comfort  for  night, 

Till  I  saw  Her  stand  'gainst  the  sunset  land, 
My  Vision  of  Heart's  Delight. 

Then  the  soul  of  the  spring  came  into  my  blood, 

The  scent  of  the  rose  at  noon, 
The  glory  of  day  and  the  rainbow's  spray, 

Of  night  and  the  friendly  moon. 

Now  all  the  fond  earthly  thoughts  I  think 

And  all  the  fair  deeds  I  do 
Are  born,  O  my  Love,  in  the  stars  above, 

And  live  in  my  love  for  you ! 

September,  1911. 

[37] 


LAUGHTER  AND  THE  RAIN 

Children's  voices  crying 

Over  worlds  of  pain, 
Laughter  in  the  sunshine, 

Laughter  in  the  rain. 

Boyhood's  heart  rejoicing 
In  the  thoughts  of  youth, 

Dancing  with  the  rain  drops 
In  the  wells  of  truth. 

Manhood's  sober  vision 
'Gainst  the  setting  sun, 

Forward  ever  glancing 
Till  the  race  be  won. 

Souls  bent  with  life's  sorrows, 

Listening  to  regain 
The  laughter  of  the  sunshine, 

The  laughter  of  the  rain. 

Memories  stirring,  fleeting, 
Big  their  joy,  their  pain, 

Oh,  the  laughter  of  the  sunshine, 
Ah,  the  sadness  of  the  rain. 


[38] 


RECONCILIATION 

I  thought  that  she  had  wronged  me  and 
I  closed  my  heart  for  very  spite, 

Resolved  that  no  free,  careless  hand 
Should  show  my  bruises  to  the  light. 

She  opened  all  her  soul;  and  there 
I  saw  the  wounds  that  I  had  made, 

Deep  livid  cuts,  untasting  care, 
And  in  the  tenderest  places  laid. 

Then  all  my  heart  flew  to  her  heart, 

Bent  but  to  wash  and  cleanse  the  stain ; 

When  lo !  the  weariness,  the  smart 
Rose  from  us  both  in  proud  disdain. 

October,  1911. 


[39] 


A  THOUGHT 

[From  the  Harvard  Advocate] 

Even  though  I  love  you  dearly, 
Yet  I  sign  myself  sincerely; 
If  you  are  an  old  friend  merely 
Still  the  letter  ends  sincerely; 
Or,  perhaps,  my  arch-foe-nearly — 
All  my  notes  close  with  sincerely. 
Strange  why  people  act  so  queerly 
With  their   dear  and  yours  sincerely! 
Heaven  knows  I  love  you  dearly, 
But  believe  me,  yours  sincerely. 

1911, 


[40] 


AT  ANDOVER 

Mother's  face  in  the  sunset, 
God  himself  in  the  star ; 

Christ  give  us  strength  to  carry 
That  love  beyond  the  bar! 

Christmas,  1911. 


[41] 


L'ENVOI 

THE  LAST  THOUGHT  OF  ALL 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  Love,  out  of  the  deep 
That  love  within  thy  breast  which  grows  and  marks 
The  glory  of  thy  coming  womanhood. 
Out  of  the  dark,  my  child,  out  of  the  dark 
Thou  springest  down  the  leafy  Warwick  lane 
Bearing  that  light  in  cheeks  and  hair  and  eyes 
Which  now  at  last  has  taught  me  highest  truth, 
Man's  duty  to  his  Lady  and  his  God. 

June,  1912. 


THE    END. 


[42] 


PROSE 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

On  May  9,  1911,  Colonel  Thomas  Wentworth 
Higginson  died  at  his  home  on  Buckingham  Street, 
Cambridge,  at  the  age  of  eighty-eight. 

The  great  scope  of  his  life  and  the  contrast  be 
tween  the  times  of  his  youth  and  his  old  age  can 
perhaps  be  shown  by  the  fact  that  when  he  entered 
Harvard,  in  1837,  the  College  contained  exactly  305 
students.  He  was  born  in  an  unformed  but  a  forma 
tive  period  of  American  life,  when  the  country  was 
passing  from  the  narrowing  effects  of  her  first 
struggles  for  existence  into  an  era  of  large  moral 
and  intellectual  growth.  It  was  his  fortune  to  be 
placed  by  birth  in  circumstances  which  gave  him 
full  opportunity  to  observe  the  great  tendencies,  to 
know  the  great  men,  and  afterwards  to  lead  in  the 
great  movements. 

He  has  brought  down  into  the  present  age  the 
memory  of  times  which  now  seem  strangely  unreal, 
but  which  are  the  most  potent  epochs  of  our  history. 
His  life  has  summed  up,  in  a  way,  all  the  thought 
and  achievement  of  the  stirring  times  in  which  he 
lived.  Himself  a  soldier,  author,  and  minister,  he 
was  the  intimate  friend  of  the  men  who  have  given 
the  greatest  moral  and  intellectual  impulses  to  the 
nation.  He  sat  at  the  feet  of  Emerson  and  Wendell 

[45] 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

Phillips.  William  Lloyd  Garrison  he  helped  pro 
tect  from  the  violence  of  Boston  mobs.  He  was  the 
intimate  of  Holmes,  Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  Whit- 
tier,  and  Lowell,  and  in  later  years  of  Sidney  Lanier 
and  Helen  Hunt  Jackson.  Robert  Gould  Shaw  and 
Charles  Russell  Lowell,  whose  names  stand  first  in 
the  roll  of  Harvard's  sons  who  died  in  the  war,  were 
his  warm  friends.  These  names  show  not  only  the 
times  and  the  movements  which  Colonel  Higginson 
represented,  but,  in  a  large  measure,  what  he  himself 
was. 

He  was  born  in  Cambridge,  in  a  house  near  the 
site  of  the  present  Hemenway  Gymnasium,  on  De 
cember  22,  1823.  He  came  of  a  long  line  of  distin 
guished  ancestors ;  the  founder  of  the  family  in  this 
country  was  Francis  Higginson,  the  first  minister 
of  the  New  England  Colony.  His  father,  Stephen 
Higginson,  a  prominent  Boston  merchant,  was  stew 
ard  of  Harvard  College  from  1818  to  1827,  and  a 
founder  and  patron  of  the  Divinity  School.  It  is 
an  interesting  fact  that  Wentworth  Higginson's 
nurse  was  Rowena  Pratt,  the  wife  of  Longfellow's 
"Village  Blacksmith."  His  childhood  was  a  splen 
didly  healthy  one,  entirely  free  from  the  bane  of 
the  Calvinistic  terrors  which  the  parents  of  the  time 
ordinarily  instilled  into  their  children.  From  the  be 
ginning  he  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  books.  "To 
have  lain  on  the  hearth-rug  and  heard  one's  mother 
read  aloud,"  he  said  once,  "is  a  liberal  education." 

[46] 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

"When  I  remember  that  my  mother  actually  read  to 
us  in  the  evenings  every  one  of  the  Waverley  Novels, 
even  down  to  'Castle  Dangerous,'  I  cannot  but 
regard  with  pity  the  children  of  today  who  have  no 
such  privileges."  He  went  ahead  rapidly  in  his 
studies  and  entered  Harvard  College  when  he  was 
just  four  months  short  of  fourteen,  the  youngest  in 
his  class,  though  fourteen  was  not  an  unusual  age 
for  entrance.  He  graduated  four  years  later,  sec 
ond  in  his  class,  and  with  an  extraordinary  equip 
ment  of  knowledge,  especially  in  the  languages. 
After  waiting  three  years  to  read  and  to  decide 
definitely  on  his  profession,  he  went  to  the  Harvard 
Divinity  School,  from  which  he  was  graduated  in 
1847.  His  first  church,  at  Newburyport,  he  had 
to  give  up  after  two  years  on  account  of  his  radical 
preaching  against  slavery.  At  Worcester,  where  he 
went  next  as  pastor  of  the  Free  Church,  he  entered 
heart  and  soul  into  the  Abolition  Movement.  His 
attitude  of  mind  and  his  appreciation  of  the  moral 
significance  of  the  time  may  be  seen  from  some  of 
his  early  hymns : 

"The  land  our  fathers  left  to  us 

Is  foul  with  hateful  sin." 
and 

"The  past  is  dark  with  sin  and  shame, 
The  future  dim  with  doubt  and  fear." 

His  hands  were  as  ready  to  strike  for  liberty  as  his 
pen  was  to  write  and  his  tongue  to  preach  for  it; 

[47] 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

in  1859  he  was  one  of  the  ringleaders  in  the  attempt 
to  rescue  Anthony  Burns,  the  escaped  slave,  from  the 
federal  government,  which  finally  sent  him  back  to 
the  South.  He  was  also  a  friend  of  John  Brown, 
and  was  the  first  person  to  announce  to  that  unfor 
tunate  man's  family  the  news  of  his  execution. 

In  all  the  excitement  preceding  the  war,  Mr. 
Higginson  had  a  prominent  part,  but  owing  to  his 
wife's  illness  he  did  not  take  a  commission  until 
1862.  He  was  first  made  a  captain  of  the  Fifty- 
First  Massachusetts  Volunteers;  three  months  later 
he  resigned  to  accept  the  colonelcy  of  the  First 
South  Carolina  Volunteers,  the  first  colored  regi 
ment  to  be  mustered  in  the  war.  He  served  with  the 
colored  troops,  under  penalty  of  hanging  if  he  was 
captured,  until  a  severe  wound,  in  August,  1864, 
compelled  him  to  resign. 

The  rest  of  Colonel  Higginson's  life  was  spent  at 
Newport,  where  he  lived  fourteen  years,  and  at  Cam 
bridge.  His  work  was  almost  entirely  literary, 
although  he  was  a  member  for  several  years  of  the 
Massachusetts  House  of  Representatives,  and  of  the 
State  Board  of  Education.  His  works  deal  almost 
entirely  with  historical  movements  or  reforms  which 
he  himself  was  urging;  but  beside  the  seven  volumes 
which  are  more  strictly  his  "Works,"  he  wrote  two 
volumes  of  poetry,  and  a  number  of  reminiscences. 
His  first  essays  in  the  Atlantic  were  on  Physical  Cul 
ture,  a  subject  of  which  he  saw  the  importance  long 

[48] 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

before  it  was  recognized  by  the  country  at  large,  and 
on  the  Political  and  Intellectual  Advancement  of 
Women.  His  witty  satire  on  the  latter  subject, 
entitled  "Ought  Women  to  Learn  the  Alphabet?" 
is  a  splendid  example  of  delicate  and  persuasive 
humor.  Among  the  more  famous  of  his  books  are 
"Outdoor  Papers,"  "Army  Life  in  a  Black  Regi 
ment,"  in  which  he  pays  a  tribute  to  the  courage  and 
devotion  of  his  negro  troop,  "The  Young  Folks' 
History  of  the  United  States,"  "Cheerful  Yester 
days,"  his  autobiography,  and  several  lives  of  men 
of  letters.  "The  Harvard  Memorial  Biographies," 
lives  of  all  the  Harvard  men  who  fell  on  the  North 
ern  side  in  the  Civil  War,  were  edited  by  him, 
although  his  name  does  not  appear  on  the  title  page. 
Colonel  Higginson  not  only  lived  in  intimate  con 
tact  with  the  greatest  men  of  the  last  four  genera 
tions  in  America,  but  he  knew  and  rejoiced  in  the 
friendship  of  the  statesmen,  the  philosophers,  and 
the  literary  men  of  England.  It  was  through  his 
knowledge  of  world  affairs  from  the  intimate  stand 
point  to  which  these  friendships  bear  witness  that  he 
was  able  to  accomplish  the  broad  as  well  as  deep 
work  which  he  did.  As  a  young  man  he  helped  to 
receive  Dickens  on  his  first  visit  to  America.  He 
knew  Thackeray  and  his  daughter,  the  present  Lady 
Ritchie,  and  partly  through  them  he  entered  into 
the  best  literary  society  of  London.  Among  scien 
tists  he  was  acquainted  with  Darwin,  Tyndall,  and 

[49] 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

Huxley;  he  knew  Browning,  Matthew  Arnold  and 
Tennyson,  whom  he  visited  at  Farringford.  A  letter 
from  Swinburne  to  Colonel  Higginson  hangs  in  the 

^ 

reading  room  of  The  Harvard  Union.  Rossetti,  Her 
bert  Spencer,  Edward  Fitzgerald,  and  Lord  Hough- 
ton  were  also  among  his  friends.  A  true  cosmopolite, 
because  he  loved  his  native  country  best,  he  was 
equally  at  home  with  the  languages  and  the  litera 
ture  and  the  people  of  all  Europe.  As  Talleyrand 
said  of  his  American  friend  Hamilton,  he  had 
"divined  Europe." 

Something  of  Colonel  Higginson's  interest  in  great 
movements  and  of  his  hopes  and  ideals  may  be 
gained  from  this  paragraph,  which  he  wrote  quite 
late  in  his  life:  "Personally  I  should  like  to  live  to 
see  international  arbitration  secured,  civil  service 
reform  completed,  free  trade  established,  to  find  the 
legal  and  educational  rights  of  the  two  sexes  equal 
ized,  to  know  that  all  cities  are  as  honestly  governed 
as  the  one  in  which  I  dwell;  to  see  national  monopo 
lies  owned  by  the  public,  not  in  private  hands;  to 
see  drunkenness  extirpated;  to  live  under  absolute 
as  well  as  nominal  religious  freedom;  to  perceive 
American  literature  to  be  thoroughly  emancipated 
from  that  habit  of  Colonial  deference  which  now 
hampers  it.  Yet  it  is  something  to  believe  it  possi 
ble  that,  after  the  progress  already  made  on  the 
whole  in  these  several  directions,  some  future  genera 
tion  may  see  the  fulfillment  of  what  remains." 

[50] 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

Colonel  Higginson  has  well  been  called  "the  first 
citizen  of  America."  Above  all  the  men  who  have 
survived  into  this  generation,  he  was  the  "relic  and 
type  of  our  ancestors'  worth,"  the  man  who  has 
summed  up  in  his  life,  if  any  man  ever  did,  the  deeds 
and  aspirations  of  half  a  century.  His  fearlessness 
in  facing  large  problems,  his  high-minded  devotion 
to  ideals  and  his  energy  in  carrying  out  those  ideals 
in  practical  life,  will  always  live,  unseen  but  potent 
influences  in  the  history  of  his  country. 

May,  1911. 


[51] 


OF  RELIGION  AND  POETRY 

An  uncritical,  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  the 
greatest  in  poetry  has  its  root  in  the  same  soul 
quality  as  love  for  humanity,  the  ayairrj  which 
Christ  came  to  the  world  to  teach.  Both  involve 
complete  loss  of  self  in  that  which  is  worthy  of 
reverence  and  love.  In  each  is  something  of  the 
same  pity,  the  same  tenderness,  the  same  aspira 
tion.  The  appreciation  of  poetry  and  the  love  of 
humanity  alike  reveal  to  us  unknown  depths  of 
longing  in  our  own  hearts  and  unknown  heights  of 
joy  in  the  future  of  our  own  lives  and  the  life  of 
the  world.  The  feeling  of  wonder,  the  nameless 
reverence  of  the  little  child  for  that  which  is  around 
him  and  which  is  greater  than  he,  breaks  out  in  the 
greatest  literature  and  the  greatest  religion.  Homer 
showed  it;  Jesus  taught  it.  When  we  read  a  poem 
and  love  it,  and  when  we  give  a  cup  of  cold  water  to 
one  of  these  little  ones  in  His  name,  we  are  perform 
ing  essentially  the  same  act.  We  are  losing  our 
selves  in  love  in  the  present  and  are  obtaining  visions 
of  larger  blessedness  for  the  future. 

18  February,  1911. 


[52] 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  "APOSTLES" 

{From  the  Harvard  Advocate,  October,  1911] 

When  Tennyson  was  an  undergraduate  there 
existed  at  Cambridge  University  a  small  but  brilliant 
and  influential  literary  club,  originally  called  the 
"Cambridge  Conversazione  Society."  Later  certain 
detractors,  because  of  the  number  of  its  members, 
playfully  dubbed  it  the  "Apostles  Society,"  a  name 
which  it  joyfully  accepted  and  has  retained  ever 
since.  It  was  founded  in  1820,  to  unite  for  debate 
and  discussion  on  literary  and  philosophical  topics 
some  of  the  undergraduates  who  were  dissatisfied  with 
the  opportunities  the  University  offered  them  for 
broadening  themselves  in  the  realm  of  practical 
thought  and  literary  achievement.  The  Society  re 
quired  not  only  that  the  members  should  have  literary 
talent,  but  the  ability  to  put  that  talent  to  practical 
use ;  and  from  the  beginning,  all  of  the  members  seem 
to  have  had  distinct  and  interesting  personalities, 
which  exerted  as  great  an  influence  in  college  as  they 
did  in  the  varied  walks  of  life  to  which  the  men 
afterwards  went. 

The  success  which  the  members  later  achieved, 
especially  those  contemporaneous  with  Tennyson,  is 
striking.  Of  the  well-known  names  are  Arthur 

[53] 


THE    CAMBRIDGE    "APOSTLES" 

Henry  Hallam,  "the  lost  light  of  those  dawn-golden 
times,"  to  whose  friendship  with  the  poet  we  owe 
"In  Memoriam";  Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  after 
wards  Lord  Houghton,  the  poet,  British  society 
leader,  and  brilliant  member  of  Parliament ;  Trench, 
afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin;  Merivale,  the  his 
torian,  and  Charles  Buller,  who  became  one  of  the 
leaders  in  the  House  of  Commons  and  a  colleague  of 
John  Stuart  Mill  in  the  Utilitarian  movement.  Fred 
erick  Denison  Maurice,  and  John  Sterling,  whose 
memory  has  been  perpetuated  in  Carlyle's  biog 
raphy,  had  been  members  of  the  Society  in  its  earlier 
days.  William  Henry  Brookfield,  to  whom  Tenny 
son  wrote  the  sonnet, 

"Brooks,  for  they  call'd  you  so  that  knew  you  best, 
Old  Brooks,  who  loved  so  well  to  mouth  my  rhymes," 

was  an  acting  Apostle,  though  it  seems  he  never 
actually  joined.  Others  who  had  an  almost  equal 
part  in  shaping  the  religious  and  social  thought  of 
England  and  in  guiding  her  political  fortunes  during 
the  nineteenth  century  were  also  Apostles.  It  was 
in  their  life  together  in  the  late  twenties  and  early 
thirties  of  the  last  century  that  they  received  the 
impulses  and  saw  the  visions  which  enabled  them  to 
accomplish  what  they  did  for  their  country  and  for 
mankind. 

The  Apostles  usually  met  on  Saturday  night  in 
the  rooms  of  one  of  their  number.  The  host  read  a 
political,  literary,  or  philosophical  paper,  after 

[54] 


THE    CAMBRIDGE    "APOSTLES" 

which  he  was  subjected  to  a  storm  of  questions  and 
criticisms.  Refreshments,  usually  of  coffee  and 
anchovies  on  toast,  were  provided,  which  supported 
the  company  till  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 
An  old  Apostle  wrote  that  the  picture  which  he  car 
ried  away  of  Tennyson  at  one  of  these  gatherings, 
was  of  one  "sitting  in  front  of  the  fire,  smoking  and 
meditating,  and  now  and  then  mingling  in  the  con 
versation."  At  these  meetings  Tennyson  read  most 
of  the  poems  that  were  published  in  his  1830  and 
1832  volumes.  After  these  poems  had  been  read, 
they  were  laboriously  written  out  by  each  of  the 
members,  who  wished  to  have  his  own  copy.  The 
influence  of  Tennyson  in  the  University  and  the 
respect  in  which  he  was  held  are  shown  by  the  debate 
held  in  the  Cambridge  Union  while  he  was  still  an 
undergraduate — "Tennyson  or  Milton:  which  the 
greater  poet?"  It  is  said  that  Henry  Lushington, 
the  youngest  of  the  Apostles,  could  have  rewritten, 
word  for  word,  every  bit  of  Tennyson's  first  two 
volumes.  The  burning  political  questions  of  the  day 
were  discussed  at  the  Club  with  ardor.  Catholic 
Emancipation  and  the  Reform  Bill  excited  an  inter 
est  which  we  of  the  present  day  in  America  find  it 
hard  either  to  emulate  or  to  appreciate.  In  phi 
losophy  they  read  Berkeley,  Butler,  Bentham,  and 
Kant.  They  debated,  among  other  subjects,  The 
Origin  of  Evil,  The  Derivation  of  Moral  Sentiment, 
Prayer,  and  The  Personality  of  God.  Three  of  the 

[55] 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  "APOSTLES" 

questions  the  present  Lord  Tennyson  gives  in  his 
"Memoir"  of  his  father:  (1)  Have  Shelley's  poems 
an  immoral  tendency?  (2)  Is  an  intelligible  First 
Cause  deducible  from  the  phenomena  of  the  uni 
verse?  (3)  Is  there  any  rule  of  moral  action  beyond 
general  expediency?  The  poets  who  held  chief 
sway  among  them  were  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Keats,  and  Shelley.  Shelley  particularly  seems  to 
have  called  forth  their  loyalty,  and  all  the  more 
because  he  was  little  known  in  England.  In  1829 
when  the  Oxford  Union  asked  the  Cambridge  Union 
to  send  three  men  to  debate  the  claims  of  Shelley 
against  those  of  Byron,  Hallam  and  Milnes  were 
two  of  the  three.  They  were  pitted  against  Glad 
stone,  Doyle,  afterward  Professor  of  Poetry  at 
Oxford,  and  Manning,  the  famous  Cardinal.  Ac 
cording  to  the  Cambridge  men,  the  Oxonians  won  the 
debate  with  this  argument:  "Byron  is  a  great  poet; 
we  have  heard  of  Byron;  we  never  heard  of  Shelley; 
ergo,  Byron  is  a  greater  poet  than  Shelley." 

The  Apostles  were  hero- worshippers,  uniting  with 
their  enthusiasm  for  just  causes  a  healthy  reverence 
for  the  great  minds  and  deeds  of  the  past.  It  is 
related  that  one  evening  Wordsworth,  then  an  old 
man,  talked  on  the  picturesque  subject  of  "Revolu 
tions"  to  the  Apostles  seated  about  him  on  the  floor. 
Hallam  knew  Coleridge,  and  once  went  to  call  on  the 
"Dodona-oracle"  at  Highgate,  but  there  is  no  record 
that  Coleridge  was  ever  at  Cambridge  with  the 

[56] 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  "APOSTLES" 

Apostles.  Of  the  same  substance  with  their  respect 
for  the  great  minds  of  the  preceding  age  was  their 
fondness  for  the  old  Apostles — still  young  men — 
who  often  came  down  from  London  to  see  their 
undergraduate  friends.  All  the  members,  old  and 
young,  seem  to  have  known  each  other  with  an  inti 
macy  which  it  is  hard  for  us,  where  one  college  gen 
eration  is  so  distinctly  separated  from  another,  to 
understand.  The  continuation  of  the  friendships 
formed  at  Cambridge  is  seen  in  the  Sterling  Club, 
organized  by  some  old  Apostles  in  London  in  the 
later  thirties,  which  numbered  among  its  members, 
beside  Tennyson  and  Milnes  and  others  of  their  set, 
Edward  Fitzgerald,  Thackeray,  Carlyle,  John  Stuart 
Mill,  and  Sir  Francis  Palgrave. 

Although  many  of  the  Apostles  took  high  places 
in  the  honor  schools  of  the  University,  not  a  few  of 
them  felt  the  dissatisfaction  with  highly  specialized 
studies  which  called  the  Cambridge  Conversazione 
Society  into  existence.  This  feeling  was  expressed 
by  Tennyson  in  his  sonnet  "On  Cambridge  Univer 
sity"— 

"You  do  profess  to  teach 
And  teach  us  nothing,  feeding  not  the  heart." 

Hallam's  dislike  of  mathematics,  a  large  amount 
of  which  was  necessary  for  honors,  prejudiced  his 
rank  at  graduation.  All  the  Apostles,  however, 
chose  noble  interests  in  literature,  philosophy,  or 
politics,  and  faithfully  followed  them.  They  were 

[57] 


THE    CAMBRIDGE    "APOSTLES" 

not  so  wrapped  up  in  each  other  that  they  could 
not  see  beyond  their  group  and  do  active  work  in 
the  outside  fields  of  University  life.  Tennyson,  in 
1829,  won  the  Chancellor's  Medal  with  his  "Timbuc- 
too";  Hallam  and  Milnes  were  also  contestants. 
Hallam  won  important  college  prizes  with  philosoph 
ical  and  literary  essays ;  and  in  1831  he  published, 
in  the  Englishman's  Magazine,  the  first  apprecia 
tive  review  of  Tennyson,  anticipating  in  discern 
ment  the  slower  judgment  of  the  public. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  Apostles  for  practical 
causes,  their  power  of  testing  the  ideals  which  they 
evolved  in  the  intellectual  rivalry  of  their  Society, 
is  seen  in  the  so-called  Spanish  Expedition.  In  the 
Long  Vacation  of  1831,  Tennyson,  Hallam,  Kemble, 
and  other  Apostles  went  to  Spain  with  money  and 
supplies  for  the  insurgent  allies  of  General  Torrijos, 
a  leader  in  a  revolt  against  the  tyranny  of  Ferdi 
nand.  Although  they  came  safely  home  after  some 
weeks,  the  danger  of  the  affair  was  shown  when,  two 
years  later,  Robert  Boyd,  a  cousin  of  John  Ster 
ling's,  was  captured  with  General  Torrijos  and  some 
fifty  Spaniards,  and  suffered  military  execution  at 
Malaga.  The  small  movement  for  Spanish  freedom 
was  entirely  abortive;  and  although  it  was  rash  for 
the  Cambridge  men  to  engage  in  it,  it  shows  their 
interest  in  the  larger  movement  for  human  liberty, 
and  their  loyalty  to  a  worthy  cause,  however 
hopeless. 

[58] 


THE    CAMBRIDGE    "APOSTLES" 

Arthur  Hallam  died  at  Vienna  in  1833,  two  years 
after  his  graduation.  In  1850  appeared  "In 
Memoriam,"  the  noblest  of  all  monuments  to  the 
memory  of  a  friend,  and  a  lasting  memorial  to  the 
strength  of  the  friendships  of  the  Apostles.  As  we 
look  back  upon  them  through  the  mists  of  nearly  one 
hundred  years,  we  see  that  they  were  men  who  were 
great,  not  merely  on  account  of  their  individual 
achievement,  noble  as  that  was;  but  on  account  of 
the  great  soul  qualities  on  which  that  achievement 
was  based.  In  Cambridge,  as  later,  the  men  were 
brilliant ;  but  the  power  of  their  intellects  was  tran 
scended  by  their  great  capacity  for  friendship,  their 
ability  to  unite  in  a  common  aspiration  for  the  truth. 
They  were  men  who  opened  their  hearts  to  receive 
the  best  influences  of  all  the  ages,  and  were  deter 
mined  to  make  those  influences  through  their  own 
lives  be  of  value  to  the  world.  Their  unselfish  recog 
nition  of  each  other's  talents,  and  their  esprit  de 
corps  in  helping  each  other  to  attain  noble  aims,  are 
things  which  college  men  in  the  more  individual  life 
of  today  need  to  emulate. 


[59] 


RADICALISM  AT  HARVARD 

{From  the  Harvard  Graduates'  Magazine, 
December,  1911] 

"Under  a  government  of  good  laws,"  said  Ben- 
tham,  that  most  uncompromising  and  most  useful 
Radical,  "the  motto  of  a  good  citizen  is  to  obey 
punctually,  censure  freely."  There  are  many  good 
citizens  in  Harvard;  some  obey  punctually,  some 
censure  freely,  and  some — with  an  eye  on  the  Col 
lege  Office — do  both.  The  spirit  of  criticism  has 
quite  recently  taken  definite  form  in  an  extremely 
militant  Socialist  Club.  Around  this  Club  are  clus 
tered  a  group  of  men  who  like  to  call  themselves 
Radicals — men  who  are  not  Socialists,  but  who 
speak  of  "our  movement"  in  a  way  which  is  meant 
to  induce  a  certain  amount  of  humbleness  in  "the 
lesser  breeds  without  the  law."  Among  the  Radicals 
are  some  of  the  most  brilliant  men  in  college ;  indeed, 
the  Socialist  Club  cultivates  brilliancy.  It  tries  to 
draw  into  its  fold  all  the  men  of  intellectual  power 
who  show  the  least  interest  in  the  commonweal;  its 
representatives  are  in  the  forefront  of  any  academic 
discussion  of  general  interest.  Unlike  Brooks 
House,  the  Socialist  Club  makes  its  progress  through 
advertising  in  material  forms.  Like  the  Suffra- 

[60] 


RADICALISM  AT  HARVARD 

gettes,  the  Radicals  realize  that  in  order  to  be 
known  they  must  agitate;  through  their  agitations 
they  hope  at  least  to  achieve  a  hearing,  although 
that  hearing  may  be  in  a  police  court.  Since  they 
are  united  on  a  common  intellectual  ground,  as  few 
groups  of  men  in  Harvard  are,  and  since  they  try  to 
assume  the  leadership  of  all  the  men  who  have  in 
mind  ever  doing  anything  useful  or  practical,  the 
Radicals  have  learned  with  good  reason  to  consider 
themselves  the  intellectual  backbone  of  the  College. 

The  Radicals  find  two  important  ways  of  exhibit 
ing  their  activity,  and  of  making  the  rest  of  the  Col 
lege — even  that  part  which  shows  an  interest  in 
things  of  greater  moment  than  baseball  and  bil 
liards — feel  the  lowliness  of  its  position  and  the 
comparative  uselessness  of  its  work.  They  take  an 
active  interest  in  politics  and  social  improvement, 
and  they  agitate  against  existing  College  evils — such 
as  the  Crimson.  Both  these  ways  serve  to  make 
them  known,  both  serve  to  make  them  useful.  In 
regard  to  the  first:  the  amount  of  good  which  the 
Socialist  Club  has  done  by  stirring  up  interest  in 
the  College  on  current  political  and  social  problems 
can  hardly  be  overestimated.  The  course  of  lectures 
on  "Social  Problems"  given  by  men  famous  through 
out  the  country  for  activity  in  reform  is  purely 
a  result  of  the  interest  of  this  group  of  Radi 
cals  in  these  questions.  The  attendance  at  the 
lectures  last  year  shows  the  need  which  the 

[61] 


RADICALISM  AT  HARVARD 

promoters  have  anticipated  and  the  support  which 
they  have  from  the  undergraduates.  The  Social 
ists  and  their  Radical  friends  take  a  promi 
nent  and  useful  part  in  the  political  campaigns 
of  Boston  and  Cambridge.  Their  activity  is  further 
shown  by  the  number  of  men  from  their  ranks  who 
write  dramatic  criticism  for  the  Boston  papers,  and 
give  up  afternoons  and  evenings  to  helping  the 
Socialist  leaders  in  Boston. 

So  much  for  the  outside  work  of  the  Radicals.  It 
is  very  hard  in  considering  their  interest  in  social 
problems  and  in  political  activity  in  Boston  to  draw 
the  line  between  those  who  are  Radicals  and  those 
who  are  not.  It  is  the  tendency  of  the  Socialist 
Club  to  call  anyone  who  shows  the  least  sign  of 
political  activity  "a  member  of  our  movement."  The 
line  of  demarcation  between  confirmed  Radical  agi 
tators  and  those  who  wish  merely  to  help  what  seems 
to  them  to  be  a  useful  cause,  thus  becomes  rather 
shady. 

There  is  less  doubt  as  to  who  are  the  Radicals  and 
who  are  not,  when  we  observe  their  activities  in  the 
College  itself.  They  are  the  men  who  write,  and 
who  do  not  write,  but  rejoice  to  see  published, 
the  articles  in  the  Monthly  against  current  evils. 
Last  year  for  the  first  time  we  learned  how 
overworked  and  underpaid  are  the  College  "good 
ies."  In  another  number  of  the  Monthly  all  the 
complaints  that  were,  are,  and  ever  can  be  di- 

[62] 


RADICALISM  AT  HARVARD 

rected  against  the  Crimson  for  bad  English,  bad 
type,  suppression  of  news,  mercenary  motives, 
and  garbling  of  facts,  were  hurled  into  the  ears  of 
the  listening  undergraduate  body.  Again,  in  a  mas 
terly  article  on  "Harvard  and  the  Liberal  Educa 
tion,"  the  question  "Does  Harvard  Educate?"  was 
answered  by  the  statement  that  we  are  being  hood 
winked  out  of  our  birthright  of  education  for  a  mess 
of  knowledge, — and  one  which  it  is  impossible  to 
digest. 

The  Radicals,  if  we  can  put  our  finger  on  them 
in  however  indefinite  a  way,  are  the  men  who  write 
and  support  these  appeals  for  a  more  enlightened 
College.  The  good  that  they  do  within  the  College  by 
their  agitation  is  twofold:  first,  they  show  that  the 
spirit  of  Harvard  is  active,  not  unmoral;  and  sec 
ondly,  they  furnish  amusement  for  the  other  under 
graduates.  In  some  cases  they  accomplish  real 
good,  although  a  very  small  amount  in  comparison 
with  the  trouble  that  they  take;  in  any  case,  they 
try  to  do  good — both  by  urging  a  reform  that  seems 
to  them  to  be  needed,  as  in  the  case  of  the  "goodies," 
and  by  making  Radicalism  a  red  letter  headline  over 
the  gates  of  the  College. 

But  with  all  the  good  intentions  of  the  Radicals, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  they  make  some  mistakes. 
In  the  first  place,  they  lack  a  sense  of  humor;  per 
haps  this  is  a  thing  which  they  do  not  need  them 
selves,  since  they  give  so  much  cause  for  mirth  to 

[63] 


RADICALISM  AT  HARVARD 

their  less  Socialistic  friends ;  but  it  would  keep  them 
from  seeming  to  be  always  at  loggerheads  with  every 
one  except  their  own  particular  coterie.  In  the  sec 
ond  place,  the  Radicals  are  intolerant;  they  fail 
absolutely  to  get  the  point  of  view  of  the  under 
graduate  who  wants  to  do  his  work,  do  his  athletics, 
have  a  boys'  club,  go  into  them  all  hard  and  leave 
the  future  until  he  gets  there.  They  fail  to  see  that 
there  are  very  effective  ways  of  doing  things  without 
advertising — ways  that  are  the  more  effective  be 
cause  they  are  definitely  connected  with  the  efforts 
of  those  who  have  gone  before.  Besides  being  intol 
erant  of  other  points  of  view,  they  are,  like  all  Radi 
cals,  intolerant  of  the  past.  Ruskin  has  said  that 
two  qualities  of  the  great  soul  are  reverence  and 
compassion.  Compassion — a  desire  to  help  the  mul 
titudes  who  cannot  eat,  and  still  worse,  cannot 
work — is  theirs  in  a  high  degree;  but  reverence  for 
the  high  ideals  that  have  come  down  to  us  through 
the  years  to  make  sweet  the  present,  reverence  for 
work  which  is  done  under  other  banners,  they  do  not 
feel.  In  the  article  on  "Harvard  and  the  Liberal 
Education"  one  of  the  Radicals  accused  Harvard 
of  failing  to  give  us  the  past  in  the  light  of  the 
present;  he  did  not  think  of  his  own  mistake  in  the 
same  article  of  failing  to  consider  the  present  in  the 
light  of  the  past.  He  saw  neither  the  duty  of  the 
student  to  co-ordinate  and  arrange  the  knowledge 
given  him  by  the  College,  nor  his  duty  to  let  the 

[64] 


RADICALISM  AT  HARVARD 

present  be  sweetened  and  illuminated  by  the  unseen 
influences  in  history. 

The  general  hostility  of  the  Radicals  to  Chris 
tianity  is  a  complaint  which  does  not  apply  at  Har 
vard  alone.  At  Harvard  this  apathy — even  hos 
tility — of  the  Socialists  to  anything  bearing  the 
name  of  Christianity  is  especially  noticeable.  A  few 
Radicals  are  fervent  workers  at  Brooks  House;  but 
by  far  the  larger  part  of  them  are  proud  to  say  that 
they  are  not  Christians.  Fortunately  their  number 
is  small  compared  with  that  of  the  men  in  College 
who  are  actively  Christian.  Here  again  a  little 
humor,  as  well  as  a  spirit  of  reverence,  might  be  of 
use.  Whether  Christianity  is  tenable  or  not — there 
are  a  good  many  people  in  Harvard  so  unenlight 
ened  as  to  believe  that  it  is — it  is  one  of  the  great 
influences  of  history;  active  Christian  work  also 
represents  an  important  side  of  the  University  life; 
in  not  recognizing  these  facts,  the  Socialists  cut 
themselves  off  from  an  influence  which  could  both 
make  their  political  doctrines  stronger  and  could 
give  them  greater  power  in  the  life  of  the  College. 

We  feel,  then,  that  the  present  Radical  set  at 
Harvard  through  intolerance  of  other  opinions, 
through  a  lack  of  reverence  for  the  past,  and  per 
haps  above  all  through  a  lack  of  humor, — the  humor 
that  JEsop's  fly  on  the  chariot  wheel  might  have  had 
when  he  said,  "What  a  dust  I  do  raise !" — is  losing  a 
great  share  of  what  it  makes  through  intellectual 

[65] 


RADICALISM  AT  HARVARD 

brilliance  and  practical  activity.  But  these  are 
complaints  that  are  brought  up  against  every  Radi 
cal  set;  indeed,  were  our  friends  not  open  to  such 
complaints,  they  probably  would  not  be  Radical. 
Many  of  the  great  intellectual  and  moral  movements 
of  history  have  been  started  by  just  such  an  enthu 
siastic  and  intolerant  crowd  as  we  have  in  Harvard 
today.  Later  generations  have  woven  the  new 
scheme — whatever  it  might  be — into  connection  with 
the  past  as  the  pioneers  have  not  been  able  to  do,  and 
have  thrown  out  the  vain  and  untenable.  Perhaps 
this  duty  awaits  future  Harvard  generations,  and 
we,  who  are  not  enlisted  as  Radicals,  shall  have  lost 
our  opportunity  for  fame.  Meanwhile,  we  go  on 
working  for  law  and  light  in  our  own  way.  We  hope 
that  the  quiet  preparation  is  not  useless ;  and  that 
our  recognition  of  the  great  little  things  which  make 
the  everlasting  glory  of  college  life  may  yet  yield 
abundant  harvest. 


[66] 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  WELLINGTON  FAY 

Wellington  Fay  was  born  into  a  family,  where 
two  sisters  had  already  preceded  him,  six  months 
after  the  death  of  his  father,  a  clergyman  of  large 
influence  in  a  small  village  in  Pennsylvania.  The 
surroundings  of  his  early  life  in  the  old  vine-covered 
parsonage,  where  the  family  had  remained,  were 
happy  in  the  extreme,  and  he  used  to  realize,  even 
when  he  was  very  young,  that  the  time  might  come 
in  the  dim  future  when  he  should  enjoy  remembering 
the  little  incidents  which  make  the  life  of  a  child  such 
a  beautiful  drama.  The  bitter,  heartrending  sor 
rows  of  childhood  also  came  to  interrupt  the  flow 
of  these  early  years,  and  to  set  off  with  a  transcend 
ent  glory  his  more  lasting  joy  in  the  love  of  his 
mother  and  sisters.  The  death  of  Wellington's 
older  sister,  which  came  in  the  spring  as  he  was 
beginning  his  tenth  year,  did  not  lay  a  heavy  pall  of 
sorrow  upon  him;  when  the  first  sharp  feeling  of 
grief  had  left  him,  and  the  vain  yearning  after  he 
knew  not  what,  it  was  not  hard  to  play  as  he  used 
to,  and  to  work  in  the  garden  among  the  great  rose 
bushes.  Wellington  and  his  mother  and  the  lone 
sister  kept  on  reading  the  Bible  every  night  before 
bedtime;  and  in  the  midst  of  such  love  and  faith  it 
was  not  hard  to  forget  the  worst  pangs  of  grief ;  but 

[67] 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  WELLINGTON  FAY 

the  experience  gave  him  a  childlike  reverence  for  the 
unknown,  which  was  to  be  deepened  and  strength 
ened  during  the  years  that  followed.  He  used  often 
to  dream  of  his  sister,  and  one  dream  especially, 
which  came  to  him  several  times,  he  never  forgot. 
She  seemed  to  stand  in  the  doorway  of  the  old  house, 
clothed  in  white  and  with  her  hair  falling  down  about 
her  shoulders,  and  would  beckon  him  from  his  play 
ing  in  the  garden,  at  the  same  time  looking  with  the 
affectionate  and  self-forgetful  smile  he  had  seen 
before  she  died,  when  she  was  sick  in  bed. 

And  so  Wellington  grew  up,  amid  the  long- con 
tinued  joys  of  childhood  and  its  sharper  but  shorter 
griefs.  During  his  later  life  he  often  had  reason  to 
be  very  thankful  for  the  memory  of  those  early 
years.  The  slightest  touch  or  experience  would 
often  bring  back  to  his  mind  the  scenes  and  memories 
of  his  childhood  like  a  panorama.  One  spring  morn 
ing  in  Weimar,  ten  years  after  his  graduation  from 
college,  he  became  aware  of  a  scent  which  wafted 
him  away  to  the  little  parsonage  where  the  smell  of 
lilacs  and  hyacinth  and  an  indescribable  freshness  in 
the  air  used  to  come  in  through  the  library  window 
of  a  spring  morning.  He  again  remembered  the 
gentle  sound  of  his  mother's  voice  as  she  sat  by  the 
opened  window  of  his  bedroom  one  summer  evening 
and  read  the  "Story  of  Roland."  He  recalled  just 
how  the  setting  sun  glowed  on  her  face  and  lighted 
up  her  smooth  gray  hair,  and  how  the  white  curtains 

[68] 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  WELLINGTON  FAY 

swayed  to  and  fro  with  a  gentle  rustling  in  the  wind 
of  early  evening.  After  it  had  become  too  dark  to 
read  he  got  out  of  bed  and  came  over  and  sat  in 
her  lap,  wondering  why  they  stayed  silent  so  long 
a  time — until  long  after  the  sun  had  ceased  to  shim 
mer  through  the  leaves  of  the  elm  tree  in  the  garden. 
One  afternoon  when  he  was  eleven  years  old,  Wel 
lington  went  up  into  the  attic  of  the  old  parsonage 
to  find  a  wooden  box  for  an  experiment,  and  in  rum 
maging  about  he  came  upon  a  pile  of  old  books — on 
top  of  the  pile  a  volume  of  Tennyson.  He  had  seen 
another  Tennyson  in  the  bookcase  at  the  right  of 
the  library  fireplace,  but  it  had  looked  so  solemn 
that  he  had  been  afraid  to  read  it.  This  little  volume 
seemed  so  homely  and  inviting  in  its  soft  green  covers 
that  he  went  to  the  window  with  it,  and  opened  it 
and  began  to  read  where  he  had  opened: 

"Break,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold,  gray  stones,  O  Sea!" 

He  read  the  poem  through  to  himself,  and  then 
began  to  read  it  again,  and  aloud. 

"And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill" — 

He  stopped.  Could  it  be  true?  Yes,  he  was  crying 
softly  to  himself.  It  was  six  months  since  his  sister 
had  died  and  he  had  not  wept  since  that  week.  He 
wondered  why  it  was,  and  could  not  answer;  he 

[69] 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  WELLINGTON  FAY 

simply  knew  that  he  loved  that  poem.  Later  he 
found  in  the  old  book  other  poems  just  as  wonder 
ful — things  which  he  was  sure  he  had  never  read 
before,  but  which  came  to  him  like  the  reawakened 
remembrance  of  a  half-forgotten  dream. 

Wellington  was  fourteen  when  he  went  up  to  the 
school  where  his  father  and  his  grandfather  had 
gone  before  him.  He  wished  to  attain  as  good  a 
record  as  they  had  made, — besides  he  was  interested 
in  his  work, — so  he  buried  himself  in  the  duties  of 
school  life  and  made  few  acquaintances  outside  of 
his  house  during  the  first  few  weeks.  Later,  after  his 
lessons  had  become  a  little  easier,  he  usually  put 
away  his  books  in  the  afternoon  and,  if  he  did  not 
have  to  play  football,  he  walked  with  one  or  two  of 
the  other  new  boys  in  the  house  across  the  fields 
where  his  father  had  walked  thirty  years  before.  On 
Sunday  afternoons  he  never  went  to  walk  as  most  of 
the  boys  in  the  house  did,  but  always  set  aside  the 
time  from  dinner  until  Vespers  for  the  books  he  loved. 
He  learned  to  like  more  and  more  the  music  of  Tenny 
son's  lines,  and  he  read  over  and  over  again  a  volume 
of  Browning's  "Lyrics,"  which  his  mother  had  given 
him  when  he  first  went  away.  He  loved  the  spirit 
of  the  spring  in 

"O,  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April's  there!" 

and  to  think  of  beautiful  Evelyn  Hope,  so  early 
dead. 

[70] 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  WELLINGTON  FAY 

As  Wellington  grew  up  in  the  midst  of  the  hard 
work  and  play  of  the  great  school,  and  as  the  num 
ber  of  his  friends  increased,  a  growing  desire  filled 
him  to  attach  himself  more  closely  to  the  life  of  the 
great  world  by  association  with  what  he  felt  in  his 
boyish  way  to  be  most  lasting  in  it ;  he  liked  to  think 
of  going  to  bed  night  after  night  in  exactly  the  same 
spot  after  moving  about  from  class  to  field  during 
the  day.  His  ardent  little  soul  attached  itself 
eagerly  alike  to  a  new  friendship  or  to  a  bit  of 
verse  which  seemed  to  him  to  carry  with  it  some 
"breathings  of  a  deathless  mind."  He  used  to  won 
der  that  the  ancient  poets  could  express  so  well  his 
own  feelings  and  thoughts,  and  he  asked  over  and 
over  again  just  what  made  this  lasting  quality  which 
has  come  down  to  us  through  the  mind  of  the  ages. 
He  liked  to  sit  at  the  desk  which  had  been  his 
father's,  reading  Homer,  and  ever  and  anon  look 
ing  out  of  the  window  as  the  sunset  glow  came  over 
the  valley  and  into  his  little  study ;  he  liked  to  think 
of  the  generations  of  schoolboys  all  over  the  world 
who  had  read  the  same  lines  that  he  was  reading, 
and  he  wondered  whether  they,  too,  had  had  the 
same  thoughts.  These  were  the  links  between  the 
generations  to  which  his  soul  clung  so  passionately. 
He  experienced  deeply  that  mighty  yearning  toward 
something — the  feeling  which  Goethe  has  expressed 
so  well  in  "Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen 
bliihn?" 

[71] 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  WELLINGTON  FAY 

One  warm  autumn  night  at  the  beginning  of  his 
fourth  and  last  year  at  school,  Wellington  was  lying 
awake  in  bed,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  day. 
It  had  been  a  half-holiday,  and  during  most  of  the 
afternoon  he  had  been  paddling  by  himself  on  the 
little  river  which  runs  between  moss-covered  banks 
about  a  mile  from  the  school.  He  had  returned  early 
and  had  read  until  supper-time  some  of  the  lyrics 
in  "Maud,"  sitting  on  the  balcony  which  looks  down 
over  the  valley  and  toward  the  sunset.  After  supper 
he  turned  to  "In  Memoriam"  and  read  through 
a  few  of  the  last  elegies.  He  had  been  reading  the 
poem,  slowly  and  carefully  in  his  spare  time,  for  a 
month,  stopping  often  and  reading  the  lines  again 
out  loud  for  their  wonderful  music,  and  to  get  more 
fully  a  taste  of  the  mystic  seriousness  which  the 
verses  stirred  up  within  him.  On  this  night  he  had 
almost  finished  it;  but  when  he  found  himself  sleepy 
early  in  the  evening  he  went  to  bed;  and  now  by 
one  of  those  strange  natural  paradoxes  which  occur 
so  often,  he  was  lying  awake,  thinking. 

"Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King." 

"And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 
A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm." 

"O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock  .   .   . 
Flow  through  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure. 

[72] 


"That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust 

"With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved 
And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul." 

"And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul."  He  stopped 
breathless.  A  mighty  yearning  filled  him,  such  as 
he  had  never  felt  before,  and  a  deepened  joy.  "Love 
is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord."  "O  God — my  God !" 
He  arose  from  his  bed  and  sank  on  his  knees  beside 
the  opened  window  and  prayed — prayed  as  a  man 
can  only  once  in  his  life — and  gave  thanks  to  the 
Eternal,  as  a  boy,  for  his  realization  of  the  man's 
soul,  which  might  never  die,  within  him. 

"Ah,  once  more  ....  ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast,  like  you!" 

He  remained  standing  for  some  time,  looking  out 
into  the  starry  night,  and  then  turned  again  to  his 
rest. 

March,  1910. 


[73] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

[Reprinted  by  permission  from  the  North  American 
Review,  February,  1911~\ 

The  friend  of  Tennyson,  to  whose  inspiration  we 
owe  "In  Memoriam,"  was  born  one  hundred  years 
ago  on  the  first  day  of  this  month  (February,  1811). 
It  is  very  easy  to  give  the  facts  of  the  life  of  a  man 
who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  no  matter  how 
full  that  life  may  have  been  of  mental  energy  and 
productive  ability.  The  difficulty  in  the  case  of 
Arthur  Hallam  is  to  show  how  the  outward  circum 
stances  of  his  life  were  affected  by  his  inward  spir 
itual  power  and  how  these  two  combined  to  produce 
the  character  which  Tennyson  has  revealed  to  us. 
The  origin  of  his  genius  can  be  explained  by  his 
parentage.  His  father  was  Henry  Hallam,  the  his 
torian  of  the  Middle  Ages,  of  the  literature  of 
Europe,  and  of  the  Constitution  of  England.  His 
mother  was  a  woman  of  great  mental  refinement  and 
spiritual  power,  the  daughter  of  Sir  Abraham  Elton 
of  Clevedon  Court.  Arthur  was  born  in  London  and 
grew  up  there  until  the  age  of  seven,  when  he  went 
abroad  with  his  family  for  the  first  time.  In  the 
days  when  all  traveling  had  to  be  done  by  coach,  it 
was  a  rare  privilege  for  even  the  most  favored  Eng- 

[74] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

lishmen  to  have  the  best  foreign  influences  come 
into  their  lives  so  early.  That  Hallam  profited  by 
all  that  he  saw  and  experienced  the  later  develop 
ment  of  his  genius  showed.  He  had  the  quality,  not 
unnatural  in  the  son  of  a  great  historian,  of  gather 
ing  in  to  himself  the  best  of  the  influences  of  the 
past  ages  with  which  travel  brought  him  into  con 
tact  and  of  allowing  those  influences  to  sweeten  and 
ennoble  his  life.  In  the  preface  to  the  "Remains  in 
Verse  and  Prose  of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,"  which 
his  father  printed  for  private  circulation  after  his 
death,  the  historian  is  justly  reticent  in  speaking 
of  his  son's  astonishing  mental  powers  during  his 
early  years.  In  this  article,  also,  it  is  difficult  to 
avoid  giving  the  impression  that  Arthur  was  a  mere 
precocious  youth  with  all  the  absurd  accompani 
ments  of  abnormal  mental  development.  But  his 
parents  and  the  friends  who  knew  him  as  a  child 
seem  to  have  been  struck  with  his  friendliness  and 
lovableness  even  more  than  with  the  powers  of  his 
intellect.  It  was  not  primarily  his  mind  which 
attracted  his  boyhood  friends  to  him  and  "the  men 
of  rathe  and  riper  years,"  but  his  charm  of  per 
sonality,  the  undeviating  good  nature  and  sweetness 
of  his  disposition. 

Hallam's  school  was  Eton.  He  entered  at  the 
age  of  eleven,  in  October,  1822,  and  was  placed  in 
the  house  of  the  Rev.  E.  C.  Hawtrey,  later  Head 
master  of  the  school.  Gladstone  had  come  up  a 

[75] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

year  before  him.  Although  there  was  a  difference 
of  two  years  in  their  ages,  they  were  constant  com 
panions  for  the  five  years  of  their  school  life.  In 
Gladstone's  diary,  parts  of  which  are  published  in 
Morley's  "Life,"*  are  frequent  entries  like  the 
following : 

"November  13th  (1826).  Play.  Breakfast  with  Hallam. 
Read  a  little  'Clarendon.'  Read  over  tenth  'Satire  of  Juvenal.' 
Did  a  few  verses. 

"November  21st.  Holiday.  Read  'Herodotus.'  Breakfasted 
with  Gaskell.  He  and  Hallam  drank  wine  with  me  after  four. 
Walked  with  Hallam. 

"June  26th  (1827).  Wrote  over  theme.  Read  'Iphig6nie.' 
Called  up  in  Homer.  Sculled  Hallam  to  Surly  after  six.  Went 
to  see  a  cricket  match  after  four." 

But  far  stronger  evidence  than  this  schoolboy 
diary  of  the  intimacy  of  their  acquaintance  is  the 
memory  which  Gladstone  retained  of  him  to  the  end 
of  his  life.  Only  a  short  time  before  Gladstone's 
death  he  wrote  of  Hallam : 

"He  enjoyed  work,  enjoyed  society;  and  games,  which  he  did 
not  enjoy,  he  contentedly  left  aside.  His  temper  was  as  sweet 
as  his  manners  were  winning.  His  conduct  was  without  a  spot 
or  even  a  speck.  He  was  that  rare  and  blessed  creature  anima 
naturaliter  Christiana.  He  read  largely,  and  though  not  super 
ficial,  yet  with  an  extraordinary  speed.  He  had  no  high  or 
exclusive  ways." 

During  Hallam's  years  at  Eton  he  made  rapid 
progress  in  his  school  work.  Gladstone  said  that 
when  he  left  he  was,  in  the  broadest  sense,  the  best 

*  Morley's  "Life  of  Gladstone,"  Vol.  I,  p.  42. 

[76] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

scholar  of  the  school.  His  outside  intellectual  inter 
ests  were  many.  During  his  school  life  he  read 
Italian,  the  old  English  dramatists  and  Shakes 
peare  with  the  greatest  enjoyment.  At  fourteen,  as 
a  voluntary  school  exercise,  he  translated  Dante's 
"Ugolino"  into  Greek  iambics.  Of  the  original 
English  verse  of  his  school  days  the  best  and  dis 
tinctly  the  most  interesting  piece  bears  the  title  "To 
My  Bosom  Friend,"  who  is,  of  course,  Gladstone. 
The  whole  poem,  of  some  forty  lines,  shows  remark 
able  depth  of  feeling  and  appreciation  of  spiritual 
truth.  He  has  been  separated  from  Gladstone  in 
vacation : 

"Like  a  bright,  singular  dream 
Is  parted  from  me  that  strong  sense  of  love, 
Which,  as  one  indivisible  glory,  lay 
On  both  our  souls,  and  dwelt  in  us  so  far 
As  we  did  dwell  in  it." 

Lines  like  these  seem  to  presage  his  later  interest  in 
metaphysics : 

"Deep  firmament,  which  art  a  voice  of  God, 
Speak  in  thy  mystic  accents,  speak  yet  once: 
For  thou  hast  spoken,  and  in  such  clear  tone, 
That  still  the  sweetness  murmurs  through  my  soul." 

But  with  all  of  Hallam's  interest  in  Sophocles  and 
Dante,  his  main  enjoyment  was  in  the  society  of  his 
friends.  A  brilliant  group  they  were,  only  less 
renowned  than  the  circle  at  Cambridge  which  he  was 
soon  to  join.  Besides  Gladstone  there  was  James 
Milnes  Gaskell,  later  M.P.,  "a  youth  endowed  with 

[77] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

precocious  ripeness  of  political  faculty,  an  enthu 
siast  and  with  a  vivacious  humor  that  enthusiasts 
often  miss,"  of  whom  they  used  to  say  that  his  first 
cry  on  entering  the  world  had  been  "Hear !  hear !" 
In  the  room  next  to  Hallam's  at  Hawtrey's  lived 
Gerald  Wellesley,  afterwards  Dean  of  Windsor  and 
ecclesiastical  adviser  to  the  Queen.  Francis  Doyle, 
afterwards  Sir  Francis,  was  of  the  group,  a  boy 
with  perhaps  the  finest  poetical  ability  of  them  all, 
and  George  Selwyn,  who  later  became  Bishop  of  New 
Zealand.  These  and  a  few  others  were  the  inheritors 
of  a  debating  society  which  had  been  founded  in 
1811  and  which  Gaskell,  by  his  enthusiasm  and 
energy,  had  rescued  from  a  premature  death.  In 
this  society,  which  still  exists  at  Eton,  the  boys  dis 
cussed  political  questions  with  precocious  ardor  and 
seriousness.  In  the  midst  of  long  accounts  from 
the  minutes  of  debates  on  Charles  I,  Hampden  and 
Clarendon,  it  is  refreshing  to  find  it  recorded  that 
on  one  occasion  "Mr.  Hallam"  was,  by  vote  of  the 
House,  expelled  from  the  room  for  throwing  a  piece 
of  orange  peel  at  "Mr.  Gladstone";  and  we  are  also 
glad  to  know  from  Gladstone's  diary  that  the  group 
would  sometimes  take  an  afternoon  from  their  poli 
tics  and  their  Greek  and  go  "to  Salt  Hill  to  eat 
toasted  cheese,  drink  egg-wine,  and  bully  the  fat 
waiter." 

Hallam   left   Eton   in   the   summer   of   1827,   six 
months  before  Gladstone,  and  went  to  the  Continent 

[78] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

for  eight  months  of  travel  with  his  family  before 
entering  college.  Gladstone  believed  that  it  was  due 
to  this  interruption  that  he  did  not  attain  greater 
eminence  in  the  specialized  branches  of  study  at 
Cambridge  during  the  next  three  years.  Certain  it 
is,  however,  that  during  these  eight  months  in  Italy 
and  Switzerland  he  was  growing  day  by  day,  not 
alone  in  power  and  knowledge,  but  in  reverence  and 
charity,  and  that  he  was  planting  the  seeds  for  the 
life  of  still  greater  moral  richness  which  was  to 
come.  His  work  in  literature  was  the  perfecting  of 
his  knowledge  of  Italian;  he  could  now  speak  it 
fluently,  and  during  the  summer  he  wrote  a  number 
of  Italian  sonnets,  six  of  which  are  given  in  the 
"Remains."  Perhaps  one  example  of  his  English 
poetry,  four  lines  from  a  "Meditative  Fragment"  in 
blank  verse,  will  be  sufficient  to  show  the  religious 
cast  of  his  mind  in  his  eighteenth  year: 

"Let  us  not  mar  the  glimpses  of  pure  beauty 
Now  streaming  in  like  moonlight  with  the  fears, 
The  joys,  the  hurried  thoughts  that  rise  and  fall 
To  the  hot  pulses  of  a  mortal  heart." 

The  moral  earnestness  of  lines  like  these  cannot  be 
mistaken.  In  thought  they  seem  to  anticipate  Mat 
thew  Arnold's  "Self-Dependence": 

"And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 

And  the  sea  its  long,  moon-silvered  roll; 
For  self  poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul." 

[79] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

Practically  all  of  Hallam's  poetry  is  subjective  and 
most  of  it  is  metaphysical.  Judged  as  poetry,  it  has 
all  the  defects  of  these  limitations;  but  in  so  far  as 
it  expresses  the  philosophic  and  religious  faith  of 
his  nature  and  his  desire  to  look  into  the  heart  of  the 
great  mysteries  of  life,  it  commands  our  admiration. 
It  enables  us  to  understand  in  some  degree  the  char 
acter  of  the  man  whom  Tennyson  loved. 

With  springs  of  the  best  in  Greek,  Italian,  and 
English  poetry  welling  up  in  his  soul,  with  a  heart 
truly  set  on  the  highest  which  life  had  to  offer  him, 
Hallam  came  up  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in 
the  autumn  of  1828.  Charles  and  Alfred  Tennyson 
had  entered  in  the  same  term.  It  was  now  for  the 
first  time  that  the  two  men  who  were  to  form  a 
friendship  so  full  of  meaning  to  future  generations 
became  acquainted.  The  undergraduate  life  of  both 
Hallam  and  Tennyson  centered  about  that  remark 
able  group  of  men  who  had  been  dubbed  in  the  Uni 
versity  the  "Apostles."  The  Society  had  been 
founded  in  1820  by  a  number  of  men  who  were  dis 
satisfied  with  the  opportunities  furnished  by  the 
University  for  the  study  of  moral  philosophy  and 
the  literature  of  the  time;  the  requirements  for 
admission  to  the  club  were  literary  talent  and  philo 
sophical  power;  and  all  the  members  were  endowed 
with  no  small  degree  of  personal  charm.  Frederick 
Denison  Maurice  and  John  Sterling,  since  immor 
talized  by  Carlyle,  had  been  members  just  before 

[80] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

Hallam  came  to  Cambridge.  Contemporary  with 
Hallam  and  Tennyson  were  a  number  of  men  who 
almost  without  an  exception  rose  to  eminence  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  Among  them  were  Richard 
Monckton  Milnes,  afterwards  Lord  Houghton,  poet, 
politician  and  litterateur;  Richard  Chenevix  Trench, 
afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin;  James  Spedding, 
author  of  the  "Life  of  Bacon,"  to  whom  Tennyson 
wrote  the  lines  "To  J.  S.";  Charles  Merivale,  the 
historian;  and  Charles  Buller,  who  had  just  been 
under  the  tutorship  of  Carlyle  in  Scotland.  It  is  an 
interesting  and  curious  fact  that  Buller,  who  had 
been  Carlyle's  pupil  for  nearly  two  years  and  who 
should  have  been  the  bearer  of  Carlyle's  idealism  into 
the  circle,  was  the  only  one  of  the  group  who  had 
distinct  materialistic  tendencies.  His  later  work  in 
the  House  of  Commons  and  as  a  leader  in  the  move 
ment  of  utilitarianism  and  radicalism  headed  by 
John  Stuart  Mill  was  notable.  The  meetings  of  the 
"Apostles"  were  held  at  "stated  intervals  in  the  rooms 
of  the  members  in  turn.  An  essay  on  a  philosophical 
or  literary  subject  was  usually  read  and  a  general 
discussion  by  all  the  members  followed.  The  present 
Lord  Tennyson,  in  his  "Memoir"  of  his  father,  has 
mentioned  some  of  the  questions  which  used  to  be 
debated.*  (1)  "Have  Shelley's  poems  an  immoral 
tendency?"  (2)  "Is  an  intelligible  First  Cause  de- 
ducible  from  the  phenomena  of  the  universe?"  (3) 
*  Vol.  I,  p.  44,  note. 

[81] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

"Is  there  any  rule  of  moral  action  beyond  general 
expediency?"  It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  society  that 
the  genius  of  Arthur  Hallam  developed  to  the  full. 
He  read  much,  though  not  always  in  the  prescribed 
lines,  thought  much,  wrote  much.  Social  by  nature, 
and  having  not  over-exact  methods  of  work,  he  was 
usually  to  be  found  in  a  friend's  room  talking  or 
reading.  All  who  have  written  of  him  at  this  time 
have  spoken  of  the  quickness  and  acuteness  with 
which  he  grasped  the  most  abstruse  metaphysical 
problems.  The  bent  of  his  mind  was  always  reli 
gious.  Underlying  all  his  thought,  even  during  the 
occasional  black  moods  which  came  to  him  as  to 
Tennyson  during  those  early  days,  was  a  deep  and 
strong  faith  in  the  personal  power  and  love  of  God. 
Among  his  Cambridge  papers  the  present  Lord 
Tennyson  found  the  following  sentence  on  prayer:* 

"With  respect  to  prayer,  you  ask  how  I  am  to  distinguish 
the  operations  of  God  in  me  from  motions  in  my  own  heart? 
Why  should  you  distinguish  them  or  how  do  you  know  there  is 
any  distinction?  Is  God  less  God  because  He  acts  by  general 
laws  when  He  deals  with  the  common  elements  of  nature? 
That  fatal  mistake  which  has  embarrassed  the  philosophy  of 
mind  with  infinite  confusion,  the  mistake  of  setting  value  on  a 
thing's  origin  rather  than  on  its  character,  of  assuming  that 
composite  must  be  less  excellent  than  simple,  has  not  been 
slow  to  extend  its  deleterious  influence  over  practical  religion." 

At    another    time    of    the    relation    between    the 
Divine   and   man   he   said,   "Unless   the   heart   of   a 

*  "Memoir,"  Vol.  I,  p.  44. 

[82] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

created  being  is  at  one  with  the  heart  of  God,  it 
cannot  but  be  miserable." 

Of  the  ennobling  and  vivifying  intellectual  life  of 
those  days  at  Cambridge,  and  of  Hallam's  su 
premacy  in  the  intellectual  circle  of  his  comrades, 
Tennyson  has  spoken  in  "In  Memoriam"  :* 

"Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 
And  all  the  framework  of  the  land; 

"When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring 
And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there; 

"And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 

Would  cleave  the  mark.    A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.    Who  but  hung  to  hear 
The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

"From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 
The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

"And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo." 

But  the  interests  of  the  "Apostles"  were  not  lim 
ited  to  religion  and  philosophy.  In  the  Long  Vaca 
tion  of  1830  Hallam  and  Tennyson,  and  others  of  the 
"Apostles"  who  were  always  ready  to  help  in  a  good 

*  Elegy  LXXXVII. 

[83] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

cause,  however  hopeless  it  might  seem,  went  to  the 
Pyrenees  with  money  and  supplies  for  Torrijos,  the 
leader  in  a  democratic  revolt  against  Ferdinand  of 
Spain.  The  Cambridge  men  met  Torrijos  and  his 
fellow  conspirators  on  the  Spanish  border,  delivered 
their  messages  and  with  few  adventures  came  home, 
to  the  great  relief  of  their  parents.  When  the  insur 
rection  was  put  down  in  the  following  year  a  number 
of  Englishmen  were  captured  with  the  outlaws  and 
suffered  death.  No  Cambridge  undergraduates  were 
among  them,  although  it  was  reported  for  a  time 
that  John  Mitchell  Kemble,  an  "Apostle,"  was  to 
stand  trial  for  his  life.  It  was  of  this  Spanish  expe 
dition  that  Tennyson  was  thinking  more  than  thirty 
years  later,  when  he  wrote  "In  the  Valley  of  the 
Cauteretz" : 

"All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 
Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the  night, 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 
I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two-and-thirty  years  ago. 
All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  today, 
The  two-and-thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away; 
For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed, 
Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead, 
And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree, 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me." 

In  the  mean  time  Hallam  had  been  doing  work  for 
important  College  and  University  prizes.  In  1829, 
when  Tennyson  won  the  Chancellor's  Medal  with  his 
"Timbuctoo,"  Hallam  offered  a  poem  on  the  same 

[84] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

subject;  Monckton  Milnes  was  also  among  the  de 
feated.  The  summer  after  the  result  had  been 
announced,  when  Tennyson  was  engaged  in  writing 
the  poems  which  appeared  the  next  year,  Hallam 
wrote  to  Gladstone:  "I  consider  Tennyson  as  prom 
ising  fair  to  be  the  greatest  poet  of  our  generation, 
perhaps  of  our  century."  In  1831  the  first  college 
prize  for  a  declamation  on  the  conduct  of  the  Inde 
pendent  party  during  the  Civil  War  was  given  to 
Hallam.  This  victory  made  it  necessary  for  him  to 
deliver  an  oration  in  the  college  chapel  before  the 
Christmas  vacation  of  the  same  year.  He  chose  as 
a  subject  "The  Influence  of  Italian  upon  English 
Literature,"  and  as  might  have  been  expected  from 
a  poet  who  was  so  thoroughly  versed  in  the  lan 
guages  of  both  countries,  wrote  an  essay  of  insight 
and  imagination.  Another  prize  essay  was  on  the 
"Philosophical  Writings  of  Cicero";  and  later  still 
he  wrote  a  skilful  and  vigorous  reply  to  Professor 
Rossetti's  " Disquisizioni  sullo  Spirito  Antipapale," 
in  which  he  defended  his  beloved  Dante  and  Petrarch 
against  a  well-meant  but  warped  criticism.  In  the 
Englishman's  Magazine  for  August,  1831,  appeared 
his  article  "On  Some  of  the  Characteristics  of  Mod 
ern  Poetry  and  on  the  Lyrical  Poems  of  Alfred 
Tennyson."  It  was  a  review  of  Tennyson's  first 
important  volume,  "Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical."  The 
essay  is  remarkable  because  of  the  insight  which 
Hallam  showed  into  the  lasting  characteristics  of  his 

[85] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

friend's  poetry.  In  his  praise  he  not  only  antici 
pated  the  judgment  of  the  public,  which  was  reserved 
for  the  1842  volumes,  but  he  marked  the  very  quali 
ties  which  later  generations  have  recognized  as  pecu 
liarly  Tennysonian.  The  following  passage,  which 
was  written  when  Hallam  was  but  nineteen  years 
old,  is  illustrative  of  the  character  of  the  essay : 

"The  volume  of  'Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical'  does  not  contain 
above  154  pages,  but  it  shows  us  much  more  of  the  character  of 
its  parent  mind  than  many  books  we  have  known  of  much  larger 
compass  and  more  boastful  pretensions.  The  features  of  orig 
inal  genius  are  clearly  and  strongly  marked.  The  author  imi 
tates  nobody;  we  recognize  the  spirit  of  his  age,  but  not  the 
individual  form  of  this  or  that  writer.  His  thoughts  bear  no 
more  resemblance  to  Byron  or  Scott,  Shelley  or  Coleridge,  than 
to  Homer  or  Calderon,  Ferdusi  or  Calidas.  We  have  remarked 
five  distinctive  excellences  of  his  own  manner.  First,  his 
luxuriance  of  imagination  and  at  the  same  time  his  control  over 
it.  Secondly,  his  power  of  embodying  himself  in  ideal  char 
acters,  or  rather  moods  of  character,  with  such  extreme  accu 
racy  of  adjustment  that  the  circumstances  of  the  narration 
seem  to  have  a  natural  correspondence  with  the  predominant 
feeling,  and,  as  it  were,  to  be  evolved  from  it  by  assimilative 
force.  Thirdly,  his  vivid,  picturesque  delineation  of  objects 
and  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  he  holds  all  of  them  fused,  to 
borrow  a  metaphor  from  science,  in  a  medium  of  strong  emo 
tion.  Fourthly,  the  variety  of  his  lyrical  measures  and  exqui 
site  modulation  of  harmonious  words  and  cadences  to  the  swell 
and  fall  of  the  feelings  expressed.  Fifthly,  the  elevated  habits 
of  thought  implied  in  these  compositions  and  imparting  a 
mellow  soberness  of  tone  more  impressive  to  our  minds  than 
if  the  author  had  drawn  up  a  set  of  opinions  in  verse  and 
thought  to  instruct  the  understanding  rather  than  to  communi 
cate  the  love  of  beauty  to  the  heart." 

[86] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

In  the  summer  of  1832,  after  Hallam  had  left 
Cambridge  and  had  gone  down  to  London  to  read 
law,  his  engagement  to  Tennyson's  sister  Emily  was 
announced.  The  visits  to  the  rectory  at  Somersby, 
of  which  Tennyson  speaks  in  Elegy  LXXXIX  of 
"In  Memoriam,"  continued  for  a  year.  In  August, 
1833,  he  left  England  for  the  last  time  and  went  with 
his  father  for  a  trip  in  Germany  and  Austria.  As  a 
child  some  anxiety  had  been  felt  for  his  health.  At 
Eton,  Gladstone  often  noticed  that  when  he  had  been 
kept  indoors  in  the  afternoon  by  some  required  school 
work  there  was  a  "deep  rosy  flush  upon  his  cheeks 
reaching  to  the  eyes,  a  significant  if  slight  mark  of 
his  coming  doom."  During  the  winter  of  1832-33, 
however,  he  had  been  in  very  good  spirits  and  seemed 
to  his  friends  much  stronger  than  usual.  A  slight 
attack  of  influenza  in  the  spring  of  1833  had  made 
Mr.  Hallam  decide  that  he  should  have  a  vacation 
abroad,  but  no  anxiety  was  felt  as  to  his  condition. 
His  last  letter  to  Tennyson,  filled  with  boyish  praise 
of  the  pictures  in  the  Vienna  gallery,  was  dated 
September  6,  1833.  A  week  afterwards  a  wet  day, 
coinciding  with  a  trip  back  from  Budapest  to  Vienna, 
brought  on  a  slight  fever;  but  it  was  apparently 
going  away  when  "a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  the  head 
put  an  instantaneous  end  to  his  life  on  the  15th  of 
September,  1833."  Sir  Francis  Doyle  in  his 
"Reminiscences"  adds  that  Mr.  Hallam  came  in  from 
a  walk  and  sat  down  at  his  desk  to  write.  Arthur 

[87] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

was  lying  on  the  sofa  apparently  asleep.  He  was 
so  still  that  his  father  got  up  to  see  what  was  the 
matter,  and  found  that  all  was  over. 

Arthur  Hallam  was  twenty-two  years  old  when  he 
died.  Many  conjectures  have  been  made  as  to  what 
he  would  have  become  had  Fate  spared  him.  Tenny 
son  said :  "He  would  have  been  known,  if  he  had  lived, 
as  a  great  man,  but  not  as  a  great  poet;  he  was  as 
near  perfection  as  mortal  man  could  be."  The 
author  of  "Rab  and  His  Friends"  concurs  in  this 
opinion  with  perhaps  the  most  striking  words  which 
have  been  said  about  Hallam  by  any  one  who  did  not 
know  him  personally: 

"We  agree  entirely  with  his  father's  estimate  of  his  poetical 
gift  and  art;  but  his  mind  was  too  serious,  too  thoughtful,  too 
intensely  dedicated  to  truth  and  the  God  of  truth  to  linger  long 
in  the  pursuit  of  beauty;  he  was  on  his  way  to  God  and  could 
rest  in  nothing  short  of  Him,  otherwise  he  might  have  been  a 
poet  of  genuine  excellence." 

More  than  sixty  years  after  his  death  Gladstone 
wrote  of  him : 

"It  is  the  simple  truth  that  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  was  a 
spirit  so  exceptional  that  everything  with  which  he  was  brought 
into  relation  during  his  shortened  passage  through  this  world 
came  to  be,  through  that  contact,  glorified  by  a  touch  of  the 
ideal.  He  resembled  a  passing  emanation  from  some  other  and 
less  darkly  checkered  world." 

Two  stanzas  by  Lord  Houghton,  written  in  1854, 
reveal  still  more  to  us  of  the  depths  of  his  character 
and  of  the  lasting  influence  he  had  over  the  lives  of 
those  who  knew  him: 

[88] 


ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

TO  A.  H.  H. 

"Thou  gleaner  of  the  sunny  hours 
Harvested  in  the  home  of  God, 
Gild  me  the  future  summer's  hours, 
Revive  the  present  ice-bound  sod! 

"Thou  gleaner  from  the  darkest  hours 
Of  scattered  good  I  cannot  see, 
Preserve  thy  dear  remedial  powers, 
And  shed  them,  as  I  need,  o'er  me !" 

Hallam  was  not  with  us  very  long.  While  he  did 
live  he  was  loved  by  his  friends  for  his  poetical  abil 
ity,  his  charm  of  personality,  his  mental  power,  but, 
above  all,  for  his  moral  maturity.  Great  as  his  intel 
lect  was,  it  was  transcended  by  his  gift  of  friendship, 
his  ability  to  identify  himself  with  others.  He 
stands  in  direct  relation  to  us  today  not  only  through 
"In  Memoriam,"  but  as  a  soul  who  has  inherited  all 
the  best  moral  traditions  of  the  past  and  has  handed 
them  down  to  us  increased  in  richness  and  beauty. 

"And  hath  that  early  hope  been  blessed  with  truth? 
Hath  he  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  youth, 
And  borne  unscathed  through  danger's  stormy  field 
Virtue's  white  wreath  and  honor's  stainless  shield?"* 

We  feel  that  his  work  has  not  been  in  vain.  And 
now  one  hundred  years  from  the  day  of  his  birth  we 
come  to  lay  upon  his  tomb  our  meed  of  gratitude 
and  love. 

'Harrow  Prize  Poem:  W.  J.  Hope-Edwards. 


[89] 


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